


The Way to Heaven

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Archangels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Christmas, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dancing, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Friendship, God Ships Them, Happy Ending, Heaven, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Angel are never supposed to ask “Why” of Heaven, and Aziraphale had seen what happened to those who did.  Yet the longer he came to know Crowley, the more he struggled with his duty, and the closer he came to asking the most important question of all:  Why could he not choose who to love?All chapters posted; work is now complete.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 55
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	1. Under Heaven's Command

**Author's Note:**

> Scenes alternate between post-canon and historical. There are no standalone chapters; best read in order.

**Three Days After the World Did Not End - London**

On a wondrous August afternoon, Aziraphale sat at his desk sipping cocoa. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the window, falling on the desk and the book stand beside it. Crowley stood by the stand, looking at the oversized tome there, opened to a page depicting Adam and Eve. 

The illustration showed a cowering couple being expelled from the Garden.

“Not very accurate,” Crowley observed. “At least, I don’t remember them looking pale and pasty.” 

Aziraphale looked over. Crowley stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his tight black jeans—how did he get those on? Probably used a miracle. His sunglasses were off, thank goodness. One of the rays of sunshine illumined his dark red hair, giving him a fiery halo.

Aziraphale turned his attention to the painting. “They were more beautiful, yes.” The Adam and Eve depicted in this book looked ashamed and fearful. But he remembered two people who strode out of Eden with strength in the face of the unknown. “And they were brave.”

Crowley shrugged. “Ineffable day, that was.”

Aziraphale sighed. _Indeed_. He held the mug to his lips, and drew in the aroma of chocolate, and cinnamon—always a good addition—before taking a long, soothing drink. He set the mug on the desk. “The Earth would be a terribly dull place if they had never tasted that apple.”

“Yup.” Crowley’s lips twitched into a light smile. “Did the world a huge favor, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Shall I thank you for my books? And my favorite restaurants?” He smiled back. 

Of course, human civilization had hardly been nothing but pleasant discoveries and inventions. He did feel grateful, though, for the good things here on Earth which, all in all, outweighed the bad. There was so much for him to love here. 

“Yup, you can thank me.” Crowley took his hands from his pockets, and ran his fingers down the spines of a stack of books on the desktop. “Did you know that Hell assigned me to convince Fust to loan Gutenberg the money he needed for his invention?”

Aziraphale gaped. “You never!”

“I did. They thought the printing press would cause all sorts of trouble up here—giving equal access to information to the masses and all. Couldn’t possibly be a good thing.”

“Hm. I do believe it may have led to a revolution or two.” Aziraphale shook his head, astonished by this revelation. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He would have blessed the ground Crowley walked on over that one act.

Then again, that might not have been a wise idea. Probably would have made Crowley’s feet burn.

“As _I_ recall,” Crowley said, “you were busy collecting illuminated manuscripts left and right, and waxing rhapsodic over the delicate workmanship, and the brilliance of handwritten, hand-painted books. And I also remember when Gutenberg’s bible came out. You made disparaging noises about how mass-produced books would put an end to those wonderful works. You said it was a horrid invention.”

“Oh. I did?” Somehow, Aziraphale had chosen to gloss over that in his memories. “Dear me. I suppose over time, my attitude got a little adjusted, didn’t it?”

“You never liked change, Angel. Technology still perplexes you.”

“Yes, it does, rather.” One of these days, he really ought to let Crowley explain the whole _intelligent telephone_ thing to him. He had to admit that many of the human inventions which he had at first resisted had come to be of great use. “Oh, well. _Thank you_ for helping with the printing press. Did you get a commendation for it?”

“Yeah. One of the few I got for something I actually did.”

“Well, that’s good. I suppose.” He oughtn’t to call anything Hell had a hand in _good_ , but still. They had given humanity _books_. Aziraphale gazed round his shop, at the thousands of beloved tomes on its shelves, and felt ever so fortunate. 

“Six thousand years,” Crowley said, “and I still have secrets from you.” He glanced out the window, and then he slowly stretched his arms overhead, and then stretched his back. “Feel like taking a stroll?”

“That sounds lovely.”

St. James’s Park stood awash in sunlight, sparkling off the water, dancing through the late summer leaves. They walked across the Blue Bridge, where they paused to admire the ducks before heading onward to their favorite bench which, for some possibly unearthly reason, was never occupied when they turned up.

They sat close together, closer than they had in the past when they had been under Heaven and Hell’s oversight. Only a few days ago, they had walked out on their former employers, and tasted the sweet air of freedom. 

Aziraphale gazed out at this beloved park of theirs, where so many precious, fleeting meetings had happened over the centuries. As he looked at the swath of green lawn, and watched the trees whispering in a light breeze, he saw a peaceful haven within a teeming city. He saw a quiet place of repose, where he and Crowley had found respite from constraint.

Six thousand years. When had he known that his enemy was truly his friend? From the very beginning. For when Aziraphale stood atop the wall of Eden, in a state of _worry_ over that blasted sword, Crowley had risen beside him not as a foe, but simply as someone who wanted to know what it was all about—the Great Plan, the Divine Plan, the Ineffable Plan—everything. Crowley was a being who asked questions. Not an enemy, merely a companion in the ageless quest for an answer.

Aziraphale reached over to take Crowley’s hand in his. The sunglasses were back in place, and he couldn’t read Crowley’s expression. But he seemed calm and relaxed. “Are there other things you haven’t told me about, my dear, that you think I would like to know?”

“Must be lots,” Crowley replied. “I’m not really one for taking trips down memory lane, though. Like to live in the present moment.”

True enough. He knew that well. “This particular present moment is the best we’ve ever had, is it not? No more worries over being seen together. No fear of reprisal for being _friends_.”

He felt a slight pressure as Crowley gently pressed his hand. _“That_ is one thing I never told you.”

“Hm?”

“Whenever we met up, I always tried to be loose and easy about it,” Crowley said. “As if it were nothing to worry over. Nonchalant, carefree—that was what I did so well.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand tighter, then released the pressure. He rubbed his thumb across the top of Aziraphale’s hand in a slow, circular motion. “Do you know, it was just a bit of show? I didn’t want to add to your worry. Make the meetings seem casual, ordinary, something to look forward to but not to fear.”

Aziraphale felt a sudden warmth flow through his body. “A show?”

“Bravado. That’s all.” Crowley turned towards him, and lowered his sunglasses enough to show his eyes, which shone with affection. “Every time we met, I was afraid, too. Just deeper down, unseen.”

And he had held it in check, for Aziraphale’s sake. “That was kind of you.” But then, Crowley had always been kind, no matter how much he protested the word. “May I say, you were quite a good actor. I never suspected you were ever afraid—” He broke off then, as he recalled the one time he _had_ seen that very emotion. Here in this very park, in the nineteenth century.

Aziraphale had not reacted well to that sudden revealing of Crowley’s fears, or to his request for a way to ease them. 

He looked into his friend’s eyes. “One slip, over all those centuries, and I made you pay for it. I’m so sorry.” Everything had broken apart then, all because Crowley’s careful façade had cracked at last. And when Crowley had shown his fear, Aziraphale’s fears had become exacerbated, and he had lashed out. “I’m sorry that I didn’t understand then what you needed. I only ever worried about you coming to harm.”

Crowley shoved his sunglasses back into place. “I know.” He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed Aziraphale’s fingertips. “It’s all right. I loved you even when you were being a little bit of a bastard.” He smiled. “Still do.”

Aziraphale brought their hands to his own lips, and kissed Crowley’s long slender fingers. “I never thought it was possible for an angel to love a demon.” He smiled, and then he sighed. “I spent far too long being deluded over that.”

“Come on.” Crowley rose from the bench in one swift move. He pulled Aziraphale up. “Let’s walk back to the bookshop, have a glass of wine, order some dinner in?”

“That sounds so terribly ordinary.” Aziraphale wanted nothing more. “And utterly delightful.”

They strolled arm in arm as they made their way through the park and on into Soho, and Aziraphale felt completely at ease for the first time in nearly forever.

*

**3004 BC - Egypt**

After the flood the demon traveled southeast to the Nile delta, where he wandered into Menefer, capital of the land of Egypt. There he stopped at the first wine seller he espied, and purchased sufficient of his wares to stay drunk for a week.

At the end of that forgotten week, he awoke to find himself lying atop a mastaba miles from the city, the middle of beyond nowhere, in the land of the dead. 

He awoke in the dark of night, beneath a million stars. And that was where, and when, the angel found him.

“Don’t you find it rather chilly up here?” Aziraphale asked as he sat down cross-legged beside him.

A faint aroma of honey and apple blossoms told him who sat there, a smell unique to the angel. The demon stayed where he was, lying on his back, gazing upward. He cradled a leather pouch against his chest, though most of its contents had been consumed. “The wine helped.” He proffered the pouch to the angel. 

To his surprise, Aziraphale took the offering, and drank the last of the wine. Then he unfurled his white wings and lay down on his back atop the dusty, rough-hewn stones, closer than close. He draped one wing over them both, and warmth flowed from the feathers.

“The heavens are beautiful here,” the angel said softly. “So many stars.”

He waited for platitudes about God and Divine Plans, or blind excuses about ineffability, but none came. The night sky was indeed wondrously beautiful here. “I made some of them.”

“You made stars…?”

“Angels made the stars. Yes. There is a grand nebula out there, you cannot see it from here.” Not yet, anyway. Humans were so very clever. Surely someday they would discover how to see beyond the darkness. “I worked on that nebula. Stars were born from it.”

There was a long silence, and then Aziraphale said, “I worked on the languages, before Earth even came into being. I designed many of the hieroglyphs they use here now.”

“Hm. Bit of a clumsy system, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t. I think they are quite lovely.”

“Whatever.” He basked in the warmth of the angel’s wing. He’d been drunk for a week, and he’d been lamenting the drowned children of Mesopotamia, and he had been alone. 

Why did he care about humans, he’d asked himself on that trek from the swollen waters to this dry land. Why did a demon deplore the loss of human life? _Make trouble for them_ , that was his duty to Hell. Not that he believed in a duty to Hell, having never chosen its rebellion. Perhaps that was where the trouble lay.

“Did you fight in the War of Heaven?” he asked. “You must have.” They all had. Though he hadn’t fought _per se_ , merely been caught up in a sweep of the wrong crowd and hurtled unceremoniously downward.

“Well, I suppose that I did, or at least, I was _there_.” Aziraphale sighed. “Leader of a platoon, in fact, given that blasted sword.”

“You didn’t want the sword, eh?” He certainly hadn’t been adept at keeping hold of it.

“No.” Aziraphale’s voice turned melancholic. “I did not want a sword, and I did not want to fight anyone. I directed troop movements, and stood behind the fray. There was no need for any destruction. The heavens had been torn asunder, and there were vast reaches of empty space towards which the rebel angels could be driven. They could be pushed over the edges where they would plummet to the hellfire below. The archangels wanted us to slay all we came upon, to use our swords to utterly destroy, but I couldn’t do it. When my platoon came upon groups of the rebellious ones, I ordered them to flank them, surround them, overwhelm them with force of numbers and then drive them over—fallen from Heaven, but alive.”

“No deaths on your angelic conscience, then?”

“I’ve never killed anything.” There came a pause. “I don’t think that I could.”

“I was in one of those groups, swept up by angels, and sent over the edge.”

The white feathers above his chest rustled. “Were you? How strange.”

Out of all those millions, was it possible this one—this angel beside him—had been the one to save his life? “I didn’t mean to fall. Just hung around the wrong people.” How much of this world, this peculiar creation, relied on happenstance, he wondered—or was happenstance just another word for ineffable? 

He lay there, watching the multitude of stars, warm beneath white wings, and he wondered, though he knew there were no answers to any of his questions.

But at least he wasn’t alone.

*

**Coming Home - Soho**

Aziraphale brought a table over to the sofa, and he set out proper china and silverware to put the takeaway from the Thai restaurant on. He set out a bottle of Riesling and two glasses, and then joined Crowley on the sofa.

“Ah. I do enjoy the green curry prawns so much.” He spooned a healthy serving into a bowl, and stirred in some white rice. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“Nah.” Crowley opened the rest of the boxes. “I’m just going to nibble on the appetizers.”

He was about to spear a cream-cheese filled wonton with chopsticks straight from the box when Aziraphale said, “Do please use your plate, my dear.”

Crowley popped the wonton into his mouth before dumping the rest onto his plate. “It’s going to be like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

“Fussy.” Crowley took out two skewers of chicken satay and arranged them carefully on the plate, followed by a container of peanut sauce.

“Well-mannered,” Aziraphale replied. “And what do you mean by ‘it’s going to be like that’? What is ‘it’?”

Crowley waved his chopsticks around the sitting area. “Living here. Sharing this place together.”

Aziraphale chewed thoughtfully on a prawn as he contemplated this bald statement. No, they had not discussed anything of the sort. Well, Crowley did enjoy being open about his feelings, and tended to speak, and often act, before thinking. He took a sip of the wine. “Is that what we are going to do?”

“Why not?” Crowley dipped chicken into peanut sauce. “Or would you prefer to ponder the idea for a century or two first?” He smiled as he bit into the satay.

The green curry was an utter delight. Aziraphale took several more bites before replying. “I am not _that_ slow, my dear.”

“Right. A decade or two? A year? A month…week, day…how about one hour?”

“I wonder at times,” Aziraphale said lightly as he took a longer drink, “how we managed to get along so well when we have quite opposite temperaments, and decidedly different tastes.”

“Mmm. Good question.” Crowley downed some of his wine. “Well, you were meant to be a proper, refined angel, and proper angels are supposed to restrain their emotions, am I right?”

Aziraphale nodded. “You ought to know. Though apparently it didn’t ‘take’ with you.”

“Nope. Never quite got the habit of not blurting out what I felt. But my point is, there you were being restrained and all and then I turned up. Suddenly here was another immortal being hanging out on Earth, the only other one, and he was _not_ proper or restrained. I think you _liked_ that. I think you envied it a little, am I right?”

“Well, I’m not sure about being envious. Attracted, yes, I’ll grant you that.” He had never met a demon, and had preconceived notions of vicious, evil beings without hearts. Yet he had met a fallen angel who was friendly and curious and concerned about the humans. And yes, he had been drawn to the excitement of Crowley’s free emotions. “But I can’t see what you saw in _me.”_

“No?” Crowley opened another box and peered inside. “What’s this supposed to be?”

Aziraphale took a look. “That’s larb. It’s a salad.”

“Ngk.” Crowley waved it away. “I don’t do salad.” He returned to his wontons and the chicken satay, downing several bites before coming back round to their conversation. “Right. What I saw in you.”

“Must have been something appealing, or I doubt you would have stuck with me for sixty centuries.”

“You steadied me,” Crowley said. “Whenever things got too crazed, whenever the humans did something even Hell could never have thought up, and I felt like screaming—or taking a really long nap—you were around to remind me of the good all around us. Remember how you used to find me at trouble spots—feuds, battles, outright wars—and haul me off out of there to go look at the peaceful village next door? Or take me for a walk in an uninhabited wilderness? You kept pointing out birds.” Crowley gave him a soft look. “Doves…ducks…what is it with you and the birds?”

“Wings,” Aziraphale said simply. “I feel akin to creatures who have the freedom to fly.”

“Hm. Makes sense.” Crowley reached for the wine bottle. He topped off their glasses. “I liked how calm you were. I felt at ease around you, even through the fear of being found out.” He drank deeply. “Oh, and you were also amusing.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale wasn’t certain how to take that. 

“Not amusing as in a joke—amusing as in clever, and witty. We could talk for hours and I’d not be bored. When we _could_ talk, that is. You had lots of lighthearted stories to tell, and pleasant adventures to recount, and bits of fascinating stuff you’d picked up in your manuscripts and books.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, I do enjoy relating a good tale.”

“And then there was all that warmth you gave off all the time,” Crowley went on. “It felt—should I say it?” He shrugged. “Yeah, why not—it felt _nice_ just to be near you. Warmth and brightness and affection…and love. I know angels love every creature, but I didn’t care if it was just something you couldn’t help doing. There wasn’t anything good where I came from, Angel. Nothing of affection in any form. I didn’t care why you gave love, just so long as I got a small part of it for my own.”

“It did change over time, you know.” From general angelic love, to a love for Crowley’s friendship, and on into simply being in love with his best friend.

“Yeah, I know it did.” 

Aziraphale considered all the wonderful things Crowley had said about him. “That was far too flattering, I think. You make me sound as if I were a paragon of virtue.”

“Sorry. I left out the other stuff.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Crowley smiled. “You’re too fussy. And you’re too stubborn at times, and too set in your ways, and far too fretful.”

“Is that all?” Aziraphale truly didn’t mind, because he knew the truth of that assessment.

“Mm. Let me count the ways in which you can be vexing—”

“Stop that. Or I shall be forced to reciprocate.”

“I’m not perfect?” Crowley raised a bemused eyebrow.

“You are too impatient at times,” Aziraphale replied. “You rush through things, and your emotions can sometimes be, shall we say, exaggerated?”

Crowley thrust out his lower lip in a mock pout. “Aw. Thought you loved me just the way I am.”

“You are kind. And you care about humans more than you often let on. But there is always room for improvement, my dear.” 

Crowley laughed. “Bastard.”

“Just a _little_ bit.” 

“See? Told you. Clever and amusing.”

“I fed Oscar Wilde a few of his better lines.” 

“You never.”

“I did.” Aziraphale finished the last bite of his curry. “Mmm. That was delicious. Is there sticky rice? I do like that for afters.”

Crowley peeked inside the carryout bag. “This must be it.” He pulled out a container. “Black rice pudding?”

“Yes, that’s it.” Aziraphale took the box and doled it out in equal portions. Crowley didn’t care to eat much in the way of regular meals, but he did have a sweet tooth. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

They ate their dessert quietly, and drank the rest of the Riesling. Then Aziraphale settled back against the sofa, replete with good food, and content with good company. “So,” he said softly, “you want to move in here, I take it.”

Crowley leaned back as well, and draped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “It’s comfortable. And my favorite person happens to live here. Should probably do something about those humans who keep traipsing in trying to buy your books, though.”

“I suppose I could close the shop. Permanently, that is.”

“That would do it.”

“I wonder if we’d need more space. There’s the bedroom and bath upstairs, which is on the small side. The kitchenette down here can handle tea and soup and little else.”

“Some magical remodeling should work, right?”

Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s near hand. “I shall have to think about in a slow, steady, careful manner.”

“The remodeling, or my moving in?”

“The former only.” Aziraphale glanced towards the bookshop’s upper floor, where the bedroom was located. “Am I going to have to take up sleeping regularly to keep you company at night?”

Crowley nodded. “Yup. Or you could sit up reading if you like. As long as you’re doing it in the bed beside me.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Can we stay close now? As much as we wish? That’s all I want, Angel.”

“I want that as well.” He turned towards Crowley then, and pulled him into an embrace. The hold was returned with a tender gentleness. 

Crowley whispered in his ear. “You’re my best friend. That means everything to me.”

“Best friends,” Aziraphale whispered in reply, “who love each other as best friends should.”

“Despite opposite temperaments,” Crowley said, “And despite different tastes.”

Aziraphale pulled out of the hold. He put his hand on Crowley’s chest, over his heart. “This isn’t all too sentimental for you, is it? I _do_ enjoy romantic novels. You’ll surely tell me if I become overly effusive with my affections, yes?”

Crowley put his own hand over Aziraphale’s. “I don’t mind.” He smiled. “I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm-hm.” Then Crowley pursed his lips. “I think. Guess we’ll find out.”

“Yes, I rather think we shall.” Aziraphale had every intention of being as effusive with his affections as he liked. He had been a proper, well-mannered angel who kept his emotions restrained long enough. And no one in Heaven would chastise him _now_ for letting his feelings show.

“Right.” Crowley glanced upward. “Fancy a bit of night-time reading, Angel?”

“It’s only just gone seven. What did I say about your being impatient?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Crowley looked round the bookshop. His gaze settled on the small table holding the chess set. “Game of chess, then? That should kill a couple of hours.”

They hadn’t played in ages, but when they did play, it was ever so challenging. “Do you recall the standings?”

“You’re ahead 1,511 wins to my 1,504.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale clapped his hands. “Then I shall grant you the white pieces, my dear.”

They rose from the sofa and headed over to the table to engage in battle.

*

**1523 BC – Heaven**

There had been so much suffering.

Yet there had also been so much joy.

Aziraphale had been created to love, and he granted that love to every being and creature he came upon, but he also basked in the reflected love the beings found between each other. Humans, and many animals as well, _chose_ to love—and he found this a constant source of wonder and delight.

And he found joy in the sheer beauty of God’s creation—the mountains and plains, the forests and rivers, the vast oceans, even the great deserts—all had their own enchantments. 

He loved the Earth and the life abounding there. 

And yet, there had been so much suffering.

Aziraphale had seen the loss of innocent life in the Great Flood, and he had been in Egypt during the plagues and the killing of the first-born children, and he had seen the wholesale destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Sometimes natural catastrophes took thousands of lives, while sometimes it was the people themselves who brought destruction by great wars. Humans had grand emotions, unlike any he had witnessed in Heaven—the strength of their passions, the tumult of their loves—these were often balanced by the fierceness of their hatreds. 

He did not understand the suffering. He gave succor where and when he could. He blessed, and performed miracles, and he granted love to all God’s creatures. Yet he did not understand the Great Plan, nor the purpose for so much pain. Surely, he believed, the good outweighed the bad—surely there was an ineffable reason.

Once a year, Aziraphale reported to his mentor in Heaven. The work of ten million angels was overseen by the archangels, and he reported to the archangel Valaron. They usually met in the Grand Workshop, where creation continued on the circles for human souls—the levels below Heaven where the rivers of milk and honey flowed, where gardens flourished, where those who had died on Earth in God’s grace came to dwell. 

Millions of angels worked here in a vast space, crafting heavenly places which mimicked those on Earth below—complete recreations of homes, towns, farmland and woodland, rivers and mountains, and whatever new things the human invented—all would be made here in the Grand Workshop, to be sent down to the Heavenly circles.

Valaron walked beside Aziraphale through the recreations being constructed. After giving his mentor a summary of his yearly duties on Earth, Aziraphale mentioned how little he felt he had done to ease the humans’ suffering.

“The souls of the humans come to rest in the circles below us,” Valaron said. They strolled past a group of angels who were perfecting a fleet of Chinese fishing boats. “And they are at peace now, with those they loved, doing whatever they loved best, without pain, nor suffering of any kind.”

Aziraphale had visited the human levels of Heaven. Everything good and pleasant which he had seen on Earth could be found there, and the dead who populated the levels seemed gloriously content. He had seen those who had died in agony on Earth, happy now, as Valaron said. And yet—that pain had still been real, and he did not know why it was needed.

He almost asked—but his nature restrained his words. Angels did not ask _why_.

Valaron walked on, into a lovely riparian woods where angels were busily planting trees and wildflowers. “Our duty is to praise God, and to follow Their commands. We must never question the Great Plan, Aziraphale.” He glanced pointedly to the ground. “Far below Heaven, and beneath the bowels of the Earth, you will find those who questioned God.”

Aziraphale paused to admire a pear tree, breathing in the sweet scent. He knew one of those fallen angels from far below—one who _still_ asked far too many questions. “Without asking questions,” he said, “how does anyone learn?”

“Learning and knowledge are not at issue, Aziraphale. Angels and humans may ask _what_ or _where_ or _who_ and _when_ as much as they wish without penalty. Only the question of _why_ should be avoided. To ask why is to question God’s will. You must never do so.”

Aziraphale had come so close to doing so. He remembered times when great catastrophes struck the humans, when those he had come to love were senselessly taken from the Earth. And he remembered how his demonic acquaintance had questioned God then, had asked _why_. He had seen his friend mourn those losses.

But _he_ had held true to his duty. Aziraphale had not mourned, for even so much as the shedding of a single tear would be to question God’s plan. 

Yet the demon had shed tears.

“Valaron,” he asked as they strolled along a path beside a gentle stream, “I have something on my mind. It is…complicated, and difficult to explain, but it has been bothering me.”

“Something that happened?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Someone I have met.” Obviously, he could not tell anyone in Heaven who he had been consorting with, though as an angel, he could hardly lie either. But he could couch things in vague terms. “Someone I have felt a certain attraction to. I have been experiencing unusual emotions which confuse me.”

“I see. Aziraphale, we are angels. We love all beings, but we do not become _personally_ involved. Especially with humans. Their lives are short, while ours are eternal.”

Aziraphale chose not to correct Valaron’s assumption of a human attraction. “What if the being is—well, exciting to be around? Someone who makes one feel more alive…someone who helps to ease my mind, who makes everything seem brighter?” He decided to leave out the part where the person was also a completely unsuitable companion, and a hereditary enemy, despite Heaven’s dictate to love one’s enemies. He had a feeling Valaron would fail to understand.

Valaron shook his head. “These feelings you are having are unbecoming to an angel. You must learn to restrain your emotions. You must not become overly attached to the people of Earth, Aziraphale. There will always be suffering, but you must never feel sorrow. There may be humans you feel undue affection towards, but you must not play favorites. Give your love to all alike in the same manner. No matter how long you live on Earth among humans, no matter how much you may adopt their ways, _never_ forget that you are an angel.”

“Yes, of course.” And yet…Aziraphale sighed. Angels _did_ experience personal love. He had seen it in Heaven. He had known angels who found a special bond with one another, who had joined in an ethereal union. Would he never have that chance, if he stayed on Earth?

He walked on, and they moved on to less dangerous conversational ground. They walked on through vast reaches of the Grand Workshop, where angels recreated a perfect Earth—an ideal Earth which Aziraphale did not know.

*

**In Each Other’s Arms - Soho**

They wound up playing two games of chess. Aziraphale won the first, while Crowley won the second.

“Well, I’m not going to catch you this way,” Crowley said. 

“We could do best of three if you like.”

Crowley yawned. “Nah. Some other time.”

Aziraphale looked over at the grandfather clock. Nearly midnight. “Let’s go upstairs then.”

The bedroom was cozy, with a large four-poster bed, chest of drawers, and a nightstand on which a Victorian reading lamp stood. Aziraphale looked out the window before pulling the drapes, at a sky in which he could discern only a handful of stars. The city lights had come to smother the stars in these industrial centuries.

“I wish we could see more stars here,” he said as he shut the heavy damask drapes. 

“We could take a drive into the countryside.” Crowley stood by the bed’s left side. He snapped his fingers, and his street clothes instantly changed into black pyjamas. “Want to head out tomorrow?”

“Yes, why not.” Aziraphale liked that idea of finding a place to go stargazing. And he liked the idea of going on a little adventure with his dearest friend, without fretting over being seen together. Though he had ridden in the Bentley before, it had always been for short trips, nothing too risky or too long. “Perhaps we could make a holiday of it. Get away from London for a few days.”

“You’d put up with my driving?” Crowley slid beneath the bed covers, and stretched out, hands behind his head on the plush pillow.

“Ah, that is a point.” Aziraphale did not use a miracle to change into his bed clothes. He took care in removing his clothes and putting them away in their proper places before he donned a pair of blue pyjamas. “You should go more slowly, especially now.”

“Why? Ninety years I’ve been driving without a scratch—it’s not as if I’m likely to go through a wall of fire again any time soon.”

“I dearly hope not.” Aziraphale slid beneath the covers and made himself comfortable. “But we need to be more careful in general, my dear. It would be disastrous to be discorporated.”

“Yeah but—oh.” Crowley went silent. 

Aziraphale turned towards him. He curled up alongside his friend, his head nestled between Crowley’s shoulder and neck. He wrapped an arm round Crowley’s chest. “Neither of our former sides is likely to grant either of us a new body.” It truly didn’t bear thinking about.

Crowley lay his arm atop Aziraphale’s. “I’ll drive carefully from now on.”

“Thank you.”

He felt Crowley’s hand on his arm, fingering the material of his pyjamas. “Is this satin?”

“Lovely blue satin, yes. From Paris.”

“Ah. I remember that. Some years after the war—you had a large bag when we met up at that jazz club, and you were so happy that you could go shopping there again. As if it had been a hardship—you buy clothes what, once a century?”

“Good quality clothing should last that long. Or longer.” Aziraphale remembered it quite well, too. “The jazz club was not to my liking. Wretched music.”

“It was genuine bebop, Angel.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Bebop is a style of jazz. They were playing it that night.”

“Oh. I see.” Aziraphale frowned. So not everything Crowley listened to counted as bebop? “I had no idea.” He sighed. “Perhaps I ought to pay more attention to things.”

Crowley raised his head to place a single light kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “It’s fine. You don’t need to know. You’re happy in your own century. Don’t change.” He settled down on the pillow.

“You don’t find me too old-fashioned? You teased me earlier this evening for being slow.” Though he had to admit Crowley had done so in an affectionate manner.

“Good friends can tease each other as much as they like.”

_How long have we been friends?_ Aziraphale suddenly saw the wall of Eden in his mind, and he heard a teasing demonic voice say, _“You’re an angel—I don’t think you_ can _do the wrong thing.”_

“Yes, they can.”

How long had they been friends…in that moment, Aziraphale knew they had never been anything else.


	2. By Way of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peculiar feeling pulls Aziraphale and Crowley towards the South Downs--is Someone guiding them now that they are free to be together? 
> 
> Post-canon scenes alternate with 41 AD and 537 AD, wherein a long-term friendship is solidified.

**41 AD – Rome**

“What do you think of the oysters?” Aziraphale asked his companion. He thought they were delightful—unusually tender within a breaded, spicy crust. 

“They’re not bad.” Crowley—he _must_ try to remember that rather silly name change of only one letter—seemed more intent on the jug of wine they were sharing. “I like these figs stewed in honey better.” 

“I have noticed that when we meet in food establishments, you do not eat much unless it is sweet.”

“I like sweet. Better than any food in Heaven, anyway.”

Aziraphale shuddered as he recalled the bland taste of food made from ambrosia. “I agree wholeheartedly.” It astonished him that other angels considered Earthly foods to be nothing more than gross matter.

“Yeah, it was getting worse, too,” Crowley said. “Lucifer kept coming round with his pals, agitating for better working conditions, and you know, the food hadn’t been that good lately…he had a lot of valid points.” He took a long drink of his wine. He sighed. “Pity he had to go and overdo things. He always did enjoy making a big scene.”

“Obviously, _too_ big.” Aziraphale popped another oyster into his mouth. _Mmm, scrumptious_. 

The mention of Lucifer reminded him that he was dining with a demon, something he often pushed to the back of his mind. He had wished more than once that his sole supernatural companion on Earth were anything _but_ a demon. He needed a friend here to talk to.

But he also needed to remember his duty to Heaven.

“So,” he began as he refilled their cups from the wine jug, “this ‘quick temptation’ that brought you here—have you performed it yet?” 

“Nah, didn’t need to do a thing,” Crowley replied. “Was supposed to tempt Emperor Caligula. Have you _seen_ what that bastard’s been doing? I can’t improve on his damned deeds. Just going to take credit for them.” He reached for another fig and chewed it thoughtfully. “Mm. What about you? What _good deeds_ are you up to?”

“Ah, well, there’s a young lad named Nero who may be Emperor soon. I’ve been instructed to interest him in the arts. I thought I would start with music.” He did love the wonderful and varied ways which humans used to express themselves.

“You get all the easy jobs.”

“Yes, well, I _am_ an angel.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in.”

Aziraphale decided to ignore that remark. He was well aware by now that Crowley could be touchy at times, especially over his fallen status.

They drank and ate quietly for a while. Then Crowley said, “Do you ever wonder why we’re up here?’’ He paused. “Well, _down_ here, for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are ten million demons in Hell. They all have work to do, including coming up here to do whatever damage they can, just as the angels pop down here to bless away at will. Like, there’s this Duke of Hell—Hastur—his specialty is tempting priests, he’s loves messing about with their vows. And his chum Ligur is a vicious one—likes to maim and dismember and even kill whatever poor creature he runs across. If you ever meet him, be sure to strike first, because you won’t get another chance—you’ll be _toast_.”

 _Toast…_ Aziraphale became distracted by the aroma of warm bread as a loaf was pulled from Petronius’s oven. He waved a servant over and ordered a plate of fresh bread with goat cheese, and more figs. 

“My point,” Crowley went on, “is that they—angels and demons both—just get a task, pop up or down here, do whatever they’re supposed to do, and then depart back to Heaven or Hell until their next assignment, which could be days or weeks or months away.” He took several figs from the plate. “So, my point _is_ —why are we the only two here all the time?”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain that he wished to tell Crowley why he was the sole angel permanently assigned here. The reason was a tad embarrassing.

Then his companion made it easier by revealing his own secret. “I think I’m being punished.” Crowley tore off a hunk of bread, and put a bit of the goat cheese and one fig on top before eating it. 

“Punished?” He couldn’t imagine why Crowley would need further punishment after being cast out of Heaven.

“I tend to ask too many questions. Got me into trouble upstairs. Never did learn. Started asking pointed ones down below, too. None of the other demons seem to have anything in the way of an imagination. Seemed odd that they couldn’t see what I was getting worked up about—couldn’t work their uncreative minds around it.”

“That is rather odd.” Then again, Aziraphale had known from their first meeting that Crowley was _different_ from his idea of what a demon should be like. Friendlier, by far, for one thing. For which he was ever so grateful.

“Yeah. I’d ask something like, why don’t we get better furniture? I mean, we can snap our fingers to _stop time_ , for Satan’s sake. At least, some of us can. So why are we sitting around on hardbacked secondhand wobbly chairs? Imagine a suite full of plush couches instead!” He shook his head. “But they would just stare blankly and scratch their lizard-infested heads, like they couldn’t _see_ any other possibilities, only what was actually right _there_ in front of them. Weird.”

His companion was straying from his reason for being punished, which Aziraphale steered him back towards. “And these questions that you asked too many of—they got you into trouble in Hell?”

“Not sure. I just know that I’d been roaming around talking up a storm about what we ought to do to make life in Hell comfier and asking why this and why that and the next thing I knew, Lord Beelzebub was calling me to their throne and telling me to come up here and make some trouble.” He paused. “And not to come back.”

“I had no idea. I suppose that is a good way to dispense with troublemakers, though.” He felt a sudden kinship with Crowley then. Perhaps the wine made him more warmhearted than usual.

“You’re here, too,” Crowley said. He favored him with a light smile. “How come—somebody up there doesn’t like you?”

Well, one admission surely deserved another in kind, did it not? That was what friends did, Aziraphale realized. They didn’t share only the good things that happened to them—they shared everything. 

“Archangel Gabriel has been a little, well, less than lenient,” he replied. “Possibly others…but Gabriel is the one who took me to task after the War in Heaven. You know that I never killed any demons then—merely directed my platoon to shove the rebels over the edges. I was accused of being cowardly. Gabriel said I would not be cast out, thank goodness. But it was clear that this assignment on Earth was a demotion.” 

“Hardly cowardly. Angels are supposed to be compassionate.” Crowley smiled. “And it was clever, too.”

Aziraphale beamed at the praise. “Thank you.”

He remembered how appalled he had felt at such punishment. Permanent exile from Heaven—how would he ever come to terms with it? But after seeing how wonderful Earth was, and how fascinating humans could be, Aziraphale came to cherish his time here. Now, he even feared a return to Heaven. He dearly hoped his good deeds here would not result someday in a promotion.

“So we’re both on the outs with our respective employers,” Crowley said. 

“Yes, I suppose you could put it that way.” How strange to have this in common with his hereditary enemy.

It was all just a little bit ineffable.

“Earth is a better place than Hell. I’m not complaining.” Crowley raised his cup. “To comfortable couches.”

Aziraphale smiled as he clinked his cup against Crowley’s. “To fine wine and good company.”

They both drank deeply.

Crowley looked at him then with a new intensity. “Aziraphale,” he said with a touch of hesitation in his voice, “we _are_ friends, yes?”

He could hear a world of hopefulness behind those words. Aziraphale wanted to say _Yes_ …but could he? He glanced upwards towards a sky he couldn’t see. Was Heaven watching? Were they listening? 

He had felt friendly towards Crowley from the beginning. He didn’t want to fear friendship.

He did fear Heaven. All the times he had met up with Crowley in the past, he had fretted. But if he were found out, his plan would be to say that he was merely keeping a close eye on his enemy, or trying to thwart his plans, or gain vital information by merely _pretending_ to be friendly.

To speak an affirmation aloud though—that was much too dangerous ground. The walls had ears, after all.

Aziraphale turned the cup of wine round and round in his hands as he said softly, “You do ask unanswerable questions.”

He expected a touchy response, but instead, Crowley gazed at him with affection, his lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. “I know I do, _Angel.”_

Then he took a single coin from a leather pouch and placed it on the counter between them. “This side shows Caligula. That’s ‘heads’.” He flipped it over. “This shows Vesta, seated—that’s ‘tails’.”

Aziraphale looked at the image of the seated goddess, wondering where Crowley was going with this. “Yes, I see.”

“Imagine, if you will,” Crowley said, “that someone wanted an answer to a question that shouldn’t have been asked, an answer that couldn’t be given safely. Now imagine you could answer that question not in words, but with a sign. ‘Heads’ is a positive reply, while ‘tails’ is negative.” 

Crowley picked up the coin and handed it to Aziraphale. “Think about that impossible question I asked just now, which I shouldn’t have, but which I truly do want an answer for. And when you know how you would reply, place the coin back on the counter.”

Aziraphale understood, and he nodded. There were, he knew, ways around Heaven’s constraints, and ways around Hell’s chains—and Crowley was an expert at finding those ways. 

He picked up the coin and rolled it between his fingers. _Are we friends?_ He was too afraid to say the word aloud. But he did know the answer.

Someone to be close to during his sojourn on Earth, however long it lasted. Someone to break bread with, to share a jug of wine, and who asked only for companionship. A companion who was willing to tell him about his world, his life, any and all of his secrets, and who would listen in turn, and who would understand. 

Aziraphale felt that he had been judged harshly in Heaven, for nothing more than showing mercy, and Crowley had been judged far more harshly still. They had a chance here, in this place to which they had both been unceremoniously set adrift, to find a way to exist together in harmony.

They had a chance to look upon exile not as punishment, but as a gift which none but they could enjoy. 

_Can we be friends, can we live here together in defiance of Heaven and Hell’s command?_

It would be slow steps, he knew—for he was always anxious over his duty, and he always would be. It would be hard, and it would not be every day, or even every year, that they could spend together. There would never be a time when he could fully relax around Crowley. 

At least, not with the way things were between Heaven and Hell and Earth. 

Maybe someday things would change.

Aziraphale set the coin down on the counter, with the head side—the positive side—up.

 _Yes_.

Crowley smiled. “Keep it.” He refilled their cups. “I saw a shop a short way from here, selling musical instruments. There was a lovely lyre—wonder if your young Nero would enjoy playing it?”

Aziraphale smiled back. “Perhaps you could show me the way when we’re done here.”

“Happy to,” his friend replied.

*

**A Most Peculiar Feeling – The South Downs**

Rain dampened London the next morning.

After a quick breakfast at a Soho café, they left the city, heading south simply because the rain clouds were heading north. Crowley drove carefully, not once exceeding the speed limit.

“Lovely countryside,” Aziraphale said after they got past the dreaded M25 motorway surrounding London. The rain had moved on northwards, and they drove now beneath blue skies dotted with white fluffy clouds. They were on the M23, surrounded by trees, with an occasional glimpse of flat fields. “Oh, look—there’s a sign for Brighton and _Crawley._ How droll. We should stop to pick up a souvenir.”

“No, thanks.”

“Thought you liked souvenirs.” He’d seen some in Crowley’s flat. Statues. Artwork. That wonderful eagle lectern from St. Dunstan’s. 

“Yup. Not just anything, though. Has to have be something meaningful.”

“Ah. So no commemorative plates or snow globes.” Aziraphale collected things himself. The bookshop was cluttered with odds and ends he’d picked up over the centuries, though the items were mostly decorative only. 

He _had_ saved a few special items from this long history on Earth, though. He kept them tucked safely away, out of sight of potential thieves. “I have souvenirs, too, you know.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Nothing as ostentatious as a lectern or a da Vinci drawing, I’m afraid. Small items mostly. An ancient Roman coin, for one. Playbills from various theatres. A goblet from the Kingdom of Wessex.”

“Ha. You _made off_ with that from my castle, you devious angel.”

Aziraphale smiled at a distant memory. “Yes, well, I _did_ ask if I could keep it, but you were passed out by then. I merely took your silence as consent.”

“What’s a little thievery among friends?” Crowley glanced over with a quick smile, then looked back at the road. “We’re skirting Crawley now. Shall I keep going south towards Brighton?”

“Yes, that sounds fine. Perhaps we could turn off here and there along the way, to look at less busy areas?” They had been on the motorway for a long time, as the traffic had been thick when getting out of London. 

“Got it.” Crowley continued down the A23 for a short distance, then turned west at Handcross.

They drove down a narrower, two-lane road, lined with trees that reminded Aziraphale of the route to Tadfield. Then one side opened to a series of wide grassy fields before getting hemmed in by hedgerows. Aziraphale found the changing scenery ever so pleasant.

Crowley drove on, going slowly through a series of small towns and villages. They had been out of London for nearly two hours when he made an utterly random turn which took them east again on Edburton Road. The landscape changed into more open countryside, with a long, low hill on the righthand side. 

“I wonder where we are?” Aziraphale dug about in the glovebox, where, at the bottom of a ridiculous pile of sunglasses, he found a roadmap. He perused it for some time, retracing their convoluted path. “Ah. We appear to be in the South Downs area near a feature called the Devil’s Dyke.”

“How apt.”

“Could we stop for a bit of refreshment?” It wasn’t quite lunchtime yet, more near elevenses, but Aziraphale felt peckish. “There’s a town called Fulking coming up.”

They stopped there at a pub called The Shepherd & Dog. Aziraphale indulged in battered haddock with chips. Crowley watched him consume his meal while nibbling on a piece of apple pie.

“This is a charming respite from the city.” Aziraphale had picked up several pamphlets from a tourist display on the way in, and had been looking them over. “Perhaps we might take a post-prandial constitutional? There are trails to the top of the hill.”

“You want to hike up a hill?” Crowley gave him a dubious look. 

“It might be a fine place for stargazing up there.”

“Oh. Good idea. Almost forgot about that.”

They spent the next hour exploring the nearest trail, slowly making their way to the top of the long, low, treeless hill. The view looked out upon fields and hedgerows for miles and miles, with isolated homes dotting the landscape below.

Aziraphale felt a sudden yearning to stay in this pleasant place for more than a few days. Where had that come from? He adored London. He shook himself as if to clear the odd thought.

“You all right?” Crowley asked.

“Fine. Perfectly tickety-boo.”

Crowley sighed. “No, you aren’t.”

In truth, he couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling that this place was somehow calling to him. “It came on so unexpectedly. I felt a _pull_ towards this whole area. Most peculiar.”

“It isn’t.”

Aziraphale, who had been gazing steadily at the wide expanse of peaceful countryside below, turned to look at his friend. Crowley had taken off his sunglasses, and his expression was unusually relaxed. “Did you—can you feel it as well, my dear?”

“Yup.” Crowley stepped closer, and slid an arm round Aziraphale’s waist, just long enough for a quick hold before stepping away. “As if we were meant to stay here.”

“Precisely what I felt.” Was _Someone_ directing their future…Aziraphale found that idea unlikely, seeing as how he was so at odds with Heaven, and yet… _something_ had affected them both. Perhaps he was only at odds with the archangels. “I wonder if—I mean, do you suppose the Almighty is still on speaking terms with me?”

“Maybe.” Crowley put his sunglasses back on. “Can’t imagine She’d be on speaking terms with _me_ , though.”

“If She still approves of me,” Aziraphale reasoned, “then I don’t see how She could disapprove of you. Our friendship could hardly be a secret to God.” Nor could their love.

“Let’s keep walking. Sunshine feels good up here.” Crowley sauntered off along the trail.

Aziraphale caught him up, and they strolled for another hour along the hilltop, under the hot, late August sun, before heading back down.

*

**537 AD - Heaven**

After his displeasing encounter with the “Black Knight”, Aziraphale spent some time pondering the possible truth of Crowley’s words. _Cancelling each other out_. Would it truly make no difference if they both stopped performing their duties and stayed home? Surely Heaven would notice at some point—after all, he had his reports to file, and surely someone checked up on his activities. 

Though it was not time for his annual trip to Heaven, Aziraphale chose to make a special visit. Crowley’s notion that any good Aziraphale did was being negated was too important to be ignored.

He found Valaron on one of the circles for human souls, overseeing the installation of a replica Acropolis. As he joined his mentor near the Parthenon, Aziraphale said, “I thought the human levels already had an Acropolis.”

“Issue with overcrowding,” Valaron replied. “Far too popular. This will handle the overflow.” He held a clipboard crammed full of papers. He flipped through them, and frowned as he tapped a pen against a page. “You there!”

Aziraphale followed his gaze to a group of angels laboring near a smaller temple below.

“I ordered six caryatids! I only see four. Where are the other two?”

“Sorry!” one of the angels shouted. “Bit of a slowdown in the statuary workshop. Davriel and Guron took a week holiday to celebrate their 10,000th anniversary.”

Aziraphale smiled. How delightful it must be for two angels to be in a loving bond for so long. “Why, that’s wonderful.”

“Pshaw.” Valaron made a note on the paper, jabbing the pen firmly. “Ought to give more notice. Plays hell with my schedule.”

“Oh, but a _ten_ thousandth anniversary! Surely that merits a special celebration.”

“Overly emotional romantic twaddle. Should be left to the humans. Ought not be allowed _here_.”

This attitude perplexed Aziraphale. “But it _is_ allowed, so God must approve of such unions.”

Valaron’s brow furrowed as he turned to look at Aziraphale. “What are you doing here? It isn’t time for your report.”

“Ah. Yes.” Aziraphale looked down at his clasped hands. “I, um…that is, I have a question about the work I’ve been doing.” He began nervously twining his fingers. How to phrase this without saying anything which might make him look bad—or give away a certain relationship he had on Earth?

“Well?” Valaron tapped his pen on the clipboard. “Speak up, then. What about your work?”

“I was wondering if…well, whether I am doing any lasting good.” He bit his lower lip. “You see, I have an adversary.” He pointed downward. “On Earth, that is. A wily demon who has—” He paused. “Um, who has _occasionally_ crossed paths with me, and whose hellish efforts keep cancelling mine out.”

“I see. Well, the answer should be obvious. You must double your efforts. You must thwart the wiles of the evil one at every turn.”

Not what he wished to hear. His work took up too much time as it was. When was he supposed to do his reading, and conduct his searches for new books? “I must?”

“Even better, get rid of your enemy.” Valaron looked him over. “Weren't you issued with a flaming sword? _That_ would dispatch the demon neatly.”

“Flaming sword...um, yes. Right.” His fretful hands felt sweaty. “Er, I suppose so…but then, Hell would send a replacement. Surely I shouldn’t waste my time dealing with one after another.”

By the expression of displeasure on his mentor’s face, Aziraphale knew he had not said the right thing. Objecting to more work was not going to go over well with Valaron, nor any of the archangels.

Clearly he couldn’t tell him that even if he still had that annoying sword, he would never use it on his _friend_. How had he gotten himself into more of a pickle than when he’d started this conversation? All he had wanted was a little bucking up about the efficacy of his miraculous efforts on Earth. 

“There must be some other way I can be sure my work is worthwhile.”

Valaron sighed. “I don’t have time for this now. But I suppose if we put a watch on this demon, we could warn you in advance of his counter-efforts.”

Aziraphale felt a rising sense of panic. Oh, no, no, no. If Crowley found out he’d been responsible for such a thing—well, that didn’t bear thinking about.

And then, from out of desperation, he had a truly clever notion.

“Brilliant idea! But so wasteful of Heaven’s work force when there’s no need. Why, _I_ could keep watch on what the fellow—er, I mean, what the wily demon was up to. What if instead, I studied the demon Crowley…that is, stayed close, watched and learned about his methods, so that I could _thwart_ him even more effectively!”

 _And spend more time in close contact with my only friend_.

Valaron flipped through his papers again. He stared at another group of angels at the far end of the Parthenon. He frowned. “What’s that you said?”

“By keeping my enemy close, I can anticipate his every move. That’s a good plan, yes?”

“You down there!” Valaron yelled. “What do you think you’re doing? That frieze goes on the west side!” He ripped a page from the clipboard. “Honestly. Can’t get decent help these days.” He turned to shove past Aziraphale.

“So that’s fine?” Aziraphale said as he passed. “You approve of my plan?”

“What? Yes, fine, whatever. Study the blasted demon all you like!” Valaron strode off muttering loudly. “Ought to dock their celestial wages…”

Aziraphale’s twitching fingers stilled. He smiled. 

He couldn’t _wait_ to tell Crowley.

*

**537 AD – Wessex**

Crowley flung open the castle’s heavy oak door, having been disturbed by the pounding all the way back in the hearth room. 

An angel stood there, not in armor this time but in a woolen clock over trousers and tunic. “Hello,” Aziraphale said warmly. He held up two oversized flagons. “I brought wine!”

Crowley sniffed. The air around the angel’s head reeked. “Been at it already, I see.” He ushered Aziraphale inside, and shut and barred the door. “Meeting on a foggy path is one thing. Risky coming right to my home, isn’t it?”

He led the way into the inner recesses of the musty, damp castle until they reached the small, cozy room where a fire was kept going at all hours. A sturdy table stood near the hearth, with several wooden chairs round it made more comfortable by woolen pillows filled with goose down.

“Nice,” Aziraphale said as he sank into one of the chairs. He set the flagons on the table. “I’ve got decent quarters at King Arthur’s, but he tends to let the fires go out. Bit of a penny-pincher. Gets awfully damp at times.”

Crowley fetched two goblets. He filled them with the wine, handed one over, and sat in the nearest chair to the angel. 

“What a splendid cup, very finely crafted.” Aziraphale ran his fingers over its embossed decorations.

“Angel.”

“Hm?”

“To what are we drinking?”

“Ah!” Aziraphale raised his goblet. “More time together, that’s what!” He leaned over, nearly spilling his drink, and whispered, “Guess what I’ve done.”

 _Oh, Hell_. Crowley downed a good portion of his wine. “Nothing stupid, I hope.”

And then Aziraphale told him what he had done. 

Crowley listened to the unlikely tale of his friend’s conversation with his heavenly mentor. At first, he felt fearful at the possible outcome, especially when the flaming sword was mentioned. He never wanted to see _that_ held over his head. But by the end, he had nothing but admiration for Aziraphale’s cleverness.

“You actually got permission to ‘study’ my methods? Huh. That’s downright cunning.”

“We can do more than have a quick chat or a short meal.” Aziraphale waved his goblet about. “We could get away with spending _hours_ together.”

“Maybe. There’s still _my_ lot, you know.” Crowley was fairly certain Hell wouldn’t buy the idea that he had to stay close to the angel to counteract his good deeds. Though they might not notice at all, since no one Down There bothered to check very often on what he was up to. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale deflated a little. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“That’s all right.” Crowley reached over to give Aziraphale’s shoulder a light pat. 

“It isn’t! I don’t want to put you in any danger. Oh, dear.” Aziraphale sank further into the chair. “What have I done?”

“Nothing. Don’t start fretting.” The angel was excessively good at fretting. 

“I only wanted to do the right thing.” Aziraphale sighed. He sipped at his wine. Then he sighed some more. “Why is being on Earth so complicated?”

“Don’t know.” Crowley shrugged. He found it far less confusing, apparently. Do his bad deed for the day, wonder why the humans found much more evil things to do to themselves than he ever did, go find something interesting to drink. And sleep a lot. “I like it here, though.”

Aziraphale reached for a flagon. “So do I.” He topped off both of their drinks. “And I like having you for a friend. I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier today.”

“Apology accepted.” Crowley clinked his drink against the angel’s. “Don’t worry over things so much.” He shrugged. “I’m willing to give it a try. If Hell notices that you’re hanging around me a lot, I’ll think of an explanation. Most likely they won’t—they don’t pay that much attention. As I said, they just want to see the paperwork.”

“I do hope you are right, my dear fellow.”

Crowley dearly hoped so, too.

Aziraphale stared at his goblet and said, “This truly is exquisite.”

“Careful, Angel, you’re starting to sound covetous.”

“Am I? Oh dear.” Aziraphale took up the flagon. “More wine, my dear fellow? Shall we drink the night away?”

*

**A Night Beneath the Stars – The South Downs**

They had brought plenty of thick blankets and two pillows on this little adventure, and Aziraphale made sure to stuff a hamper full of his favorite snacks.

After driving aimlessly round more of the South Downs area for hours, during which they both felt increasing waves of a peculiar affection for the place, they returned to Fulking and the pub for dinner. 

One of the tables there had a chess set.

Crowley checked his watch. “Few hours to kill until we climb that hill again for stargazing.” He rubbed his hands together. “Time for me to catch up.”

He didn’t.

At dusk, they hauled their gear to the top of the hill. Crowley spread out the blankets and pillows, while Aziraphale unpacked a bottle of wine from the hamper. He pulled the cork via a snap of the fingers, took a drink, and handed it across.

“Maybe next time you’ll win,” he said kindly.

Crowley lay back against his pillow, head propped under one crooked arm. He took a swig from the bottle. “I think we need a new game. How are you at poker?”

“Never played it.”

“Good.” Crowley took another drink before passing the bottle over.

Aziraphale had made himself comfortable alongside him. He looked at the darkening sky overhead. A few faint twinkles appeared. “No light pollution. This was a marvelous idea.”

While waiting for the sky to grow darker, they drank down the bottle of wine, idly chatting, and sometimes just lying there quietly. The sky was clear, not a cloud anywhere. There was the barest hint of a soft, warm breeze that wafted gently over the grass. From far below, an owl called three times, and then went silent.

Aziraphale felt at peace. 

When the bottle was empty, he set it aside, and reached out for Crowley’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Are you still having those peculiar feelings about this place?”

“They kind of shifted into the background.”

“Mm. That’s what I feel as well.”

“Sort of as if we belong here.”

“Maybe we do.” Aziraphale had never thought of leaving London until now. “Give it another day or two.”

“Right. As if it were something we ate. No, Angel, something’s different here.” Crowley gave his hand a light squeeze. “We’re okay, though. It’s a good place. And there are stars.”

The sky had gotten dark enough to see them clearly now. Hundreds…and then thousands of brilliant lights in the night. Aziraphale gazed at their beauty, not seen in all the long while he’d spent in London. As he admired them, he thought about the angel Crowley who had lovingly crafted those stars. “Wondrous,” he whispered.

“Nebulas were more my thing,” Crowley replied. “More colorful. Enormous clouds of pulsing, glowing color—blues, greens, golden orange. I got to mix them like an artist on a celestial canvas, and my hands were the brushes. The Grand Nebula was my finest. It was glorious work.” He paused. “But cold.”

“Cold?”

“Downright frigid, all the time. Worth it, though. Every second of creating beauty was worth the cold.”

Aziraphale found Crowley’s words touching. “Perhaps you could show me one of your nebulas one day.”

“Someday. And speaking of cold…isn’t there another blanket?”

“Yes, it is getting a bit nippy.” Aziraphale had folded up a wool blanket beneath his pillows. He pulled it out and spread it over them, and they both shifted about until they were as close as possible, turned slightly into each other in a light embrace.

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s cheek. “Thank you for bringing me out to see the stars.”

“Anytime, Angel.” He felt Crowley’s soft lips brush lightly across his own.

That was new—and rather lovely. Aziraphale touched his fingers to Crowley’s lips. “Would you mind doing that again, only a little longer?” 

“You mean…a proper kiss? Never done that before.”

“Neither have I.”

“Good. We can be bad at it together, then.” 

They pressed their lips against each other’s in a tentative fashion, lightly at first, then pushing a little harder here and there, now and then, pulling away briefly, returning for more exploration. Aziraphale found the experience entrancing. He felt warmth, and softness, and gentleness…and he touched light and love and just a flicker of the fire that quivered beneath the surface, the flame of Crowley’s soul.

“I think we were quite good at it,” he said when they pulled apart. 

“Mm-hm. Felt as if I touched a part of Heaven.”

“A good thing, I take it?”

Crowley brushed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “Always. I don’t hate it, you know. I asked _why_ too many times, I know—but that didn’t mean that I didn’t want to stay. There was a lot of good in Heaven.” His hand drifted along Aziraphale’s face and neck, then came to rest on his chest. “Are you going to miss it?”

“Not sure.” He hadn’t really had time to consider the idea of never returning. “They didn’t exactly treat me all that well.”

“Archangels were always the worst wankers up there. She should have kicked them all out instead of—” Crowley broke off. “Whatever. It’s fine. You don’t have to answer.”

Aziraphale lay a hand atop Crowley’s. “I do know one part that made me happy—the circles of human souls. All the suffering gone, nothing but joy and laughter there, and all the places and things they loved most. I used to go down there often, simply to watch the people. It helped, whenever I’d seen too much pain down here.”

“Definitely a good thing. Never seen them myself.”

No. The Fallen had been cast out before the Earth was created, before there were any human souls in Heaven. And the circles of Hell were nothing anyone would ever wish to visit. And he knew Crowley cared for the humans on Earth, and hated any innocent suffering. Aziraphale had described the circles of Heaven to Crowley before, but hearing of them could not compare to being within them, to feeling the sheer elation there. “So sorry. I wish you could.”

He looked at the stars. Heaven did not literally reside up there, of course. It existed on another, ethereal plane—which he might never visit again.

Crowley moved into a tighter embrace. “We’ll just have to make a heaven on Earth, then, won’t we?”

It was so very possible, in this new freedom of theirs.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “We’ll have to do that, now that we _can_.”


	3. Through the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In present times, Aziraphale and Crowley go stargazing in the South Downs, and ponder making a move from London. 
> 
> Alternates with 1020 AD and the forming of the Arrangement, and 1350 AD, where Aziraphale's faith in God is severely tested by the Black Death sweeping Europe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: description of child death in the 1350AD scene.

**1020 AD – London**

Crowley could sense where the angel was, anywhere on Earth. When he didn’t hear from him for over a month, he used that ability to track him down to a tavern near the angel’s current lodging house. Highly unusual—Aziraphale rarely drank alone.

“What are you doing holed up here by yourself?” he asked as he sat down at the angel’s table. He picked up the jug of ale—nearly empty. “What’s wrong?”

“Nobody in Heaven _likes_ me,” Aziraphale replied. His lips formed a distinct pout. 

“Aw. Such a pity.” Crowley failed to understand the problem. “So? You don’t like anyone up there, either. Much more entertaining folks down here.” He glanced at a platter beside the jug, which was empty save for a few crumbs. “You like the food better. And the spirits.” 

Aziraphale sniffed. “All I ask for is a few simple accommodations. After all these centuries, doing the archangels’ bidding, you would think just a _small_ compensatory reward would be in order.”

“Ah ha.” Crowley’s confusion started to clear a little. “Did you ask for a raise in your celestial wages? Tsk tsk. They never like that. Should always be _their_ idea.”

“I know that.” Aziraphale waved at the publican. “Another jug, please, and another cup for my friend.”

“Thanks. So what did you ask for?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I only wanted a permanent spot to house my manuscripts and books. The collection has grown quite large, and moving it from one secure warehouse to another over the centuries gets tedious, not to mention the worry over something happening to them. I can only keep a small portion within the small living quarters that Heaven allows me to have.” He frowned. “Mustn’t put on airs, the archangels say. Would never _do_ to live in splendor. Harrumph. I don’t care about being rich—I only want a _comfortable_ place. A safe place to live with _all_ my collection.”

The publican set the jug and cup on the table. Crowley insisted on paying for this round. “Don’t see why you bother keeping those things. Never have enough time to read them all.”

“That’s another point! No time to read!” Aziraphale refilled his cup and passed the jug over. “I asked for a reduction in my working hours. Five thousand years, you’d think that would be worth _something_.”

Crowley drank his ale. It wasn’t terribly good ale, but then, this wasn’t a terribly good neighborhood. “They didn’t go for it, I take it?”

Aziraphale slammed his wooden cup on the table. “Valaron chastised me for being too acquisitive. ‘Angels do not need material objects. As you are dwelling on Earth among humans, naturally you will be provided with the simplest clothing and furnishings required to fit in, but nothing more. Do not fall prey to vanity.’” Aziraphale sniffed again. “Vanity, I ask you! I merely wish to _read_.” He paused. “In comfort. With better lighting. And a softer chair. With my entire collection around me. And with more _time!”_

Crowley shrugged. “You can miracle up a softer chair and a decent lamp.”

“I did. I got a reprimand for being frivolous.”

“Oh.” Crowley felt more empathy for his friend then. “Sorry. Didn’t think they paid that much attention.”

“Normally, they don’t. But my last few miracles and blessings came about a bit slower than usual.” Aziraphale pouted again. “I found an exquisite copy of Beowulf, you see, and got distracted reading it, and well, perhaps the blessings got a _little_ behind schedule.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not a good idea, Angel. You don’t want them noticing things like that.”

“But what I am to _do?_ There are so many books I wish to read.” 

“Behave yourself for a while. Just until they forget all about you again, then miracle up another sofa and lamp when they’re not looking.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I always do. But it doesn’t solve the time issue, does it?” Aziraphale gazed gloomily into his cup of ale. Then he looked up at Crowley with raised eyebrows. “Why aren’t _you_ busier?”

“I take credit for evil that the humans think up by themselves, remember? Gets me lots of commendations, and time off.” He smiled. “They love me down there.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do the same. I couldn’t take credit for the good things people come up with. That would be _lying_.”

“Well, then.” Crowley drank some more, and pondered his friend’s predicament. There ought to be a way to help, preferably with no one Up There or Down There being the wiser. 

After all, he did love the idiot. He had tucked that truth way down deep in his mind for millennia, knowing it was not something demons _did._ But Crowley had felt affection for the angel at their first encounter on the wall of Eden, and it had only grown since that long-ago day. He doubted he could ever reveal such feelings, not when the powers above and below deemed them forbidden.

Aziraphale felt affection towards him, he knew that. They were _friends_ , which was also forbidden, but easier to keep secret, in their brief meetings and fleeting encounters, than a true loving friendship could be. 

Crowley wanted to do something good for the friend that he loved, the friend he wished he could be with more openly. So he drank his ale and considered the possibilities, and somewhere around the third cup, it came to him.

 _He had too much free time, and Aziraphale had too little_. And they both came from the same angelic stock—a miracle was a miracle, whether it was performed for good, or for bad. 

“Angel, I have an idea.”

Aziraphale listened closely as Crowley put forth his plan. An arrangement whereby he would take some of the angel’s workload from time to time, and where they would lend each other a hand when needed. And they would take care to stay out of each other’s way just enough to ensure a good standing with their respective superiors. 

“It’s rather good,” Aziraphale said. “But are you certain you would _want_ to perform blessings and good miracles?”

“I’d manage.” Crowley drank the last of his ale. Then he said softly, “Might even make me feel a little less demonic.” Not that he’d ever been particularly good at it in the first place. Nor did he wish to admit that giving a blessing might make him feel the way he did _before_ …or that it might feel _nice_. He _was_ a demon, and demons were never nice.

Aziraphale finished off his drink, and did not call for another jug. “What happens, though, if you get overworked at times? Would you expect me to reciprocate—to perform a temptation?”

“Could you?” Crowley wondered if his friend would take another step of rebellion against Heaven. _“Would_ you? Are you willing to agree to this arrangement?”

Aziraphale rolled the empty cup round in his hands for some time. Then he reached into a leather pouch round his waist, and took out a single coin.

He placed it on the table—heads upward.

*

**The Cottage at the End of the Lane – The South Downs**

They spent the following day driving around the area randomly. Crowley drove along the narrow backroads with no destination in mind, and both he and Aziraphale waited for inspiration to hit. They tried to keep their thoughts in abeyance, and drove quietly without talking, simply letting any otherworldly direction take its course.

They stopped at every village they came upon, got out and walked around, and checked for those peculiar feelings of attraction. 

Near the end of the day they both felt a pull down the narrowest lane yet, and when they reached the tiny village at the end, they knew without speaking that this was the place.

After a simple supper in the lone café, they took a walk down a public footpath which led out of the village, then along a small stream. There were whispering willows along one side, and fields broken by hedgerows on the other, with a smattering of cottages.

They came to a wooden footbridge and crossed the stream. Fifty feet on, the path forked. Either they could continue by the stream, or turn down a path alongside a hedge. A wooden sign told them that path was private.

“Not to us, I believe,” Aziraphale said, for the feeling of belonging was stronger than ever here.

Crowley nodded. “Let’s go.”

Dusk fell around them, soft and slow, as they walked on. 

Somewhere nearby, an owl called three times, and then went silent.

“Symbol of wisdom, right?” Crowley said. “I may feel awfully clever at times, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt wise.”

“Neither have I,” Aziraphale agreed. “When the world bewilders me, I need a higher hand to guide me.”

They came round a bend, and the hedgerow came to an end. The path widened out, leading across a wide grass lawn to a whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof.

Aziraphale could see fields and more hedgerows stretching round the home, and a gravel drive leading to the roadway. “I suppose we could have driven here.”

“Yup. More fun this way, though.” 

They walked down the path through the lawn to look at a sign posted near the front of the drive. Neither of them was surprised to see the words _For Sale_.

There was no car in the drive and the cottage stood in darkness. They walked all round it, seeing no sign of anyone. Aziraphale knocked on the front door, to get no answer. 

“Shall we invite ourselves in?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He snapped his fingers to open the door.

He loved the interior of the home. Edwardian furnishings, beamed ceilings, a bow window. Cozy sitting room with fireplace. Built-in bookcases. 

The kitchen looked more modern, while the dining area was delightfully simple with a sturdy oak table and buffet. Down a short hallway stood three unfurnished bedrooms and a full bath. 

Crowley investigated the rooms and said, “One for you, one for me, and one for us.”

They returned to the kitchen, where a door led to a mudroom, and an outer door opened to a small brick patio. Beyond that spread a large garden, lush with trees, bushes, flowers, and vegetable beds. At the far end they came upon a bench facing a small pond. In the fading light of evening, they saw two Mallards paddling lazily about.

They left the property, and as they strolled back along the path they came by, Aziraphale said, “I love London. Why would I want to leave it?”

“Nobody says you have to.”

“But the feelings we’re getting here—we’re _meant_ to move to this cottage, Crowley. Aren’t we?”

“Totally agreed. Never felt anything like it before. We’ll stop in at the realty office first thing in the morning. But just because we live here doesn’t mean giving up London. Not that far away. The bookshop can be our weekend place.”

“How posh.” Aziraphale smiled at the notion of having both a country home and one in Town. “And how delightful.”

“Always thinking, me.” Crowley suddenly stopped, turned, and put his arms around Aziraphale. “I think we’re meant to be at peace here, Angel. Away from the world for a while. Not sure how long. Don’t care. Just a time for us to _be_ us, with nothing and no one to distract from what matters.”

Aziraphale felt such an overwhelming sense of love flood over him then that he nearly lost his breath. He wrapped his arms around his dearest friend, cherishing the strength of his hold. “Away from the world….” Could they truly do that? Were they finally being granted a respite, so terribly long overdue?

“Refuge for the weary,” Crowley said. He kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Let’s rest now, Angel.”

And oh, he had been so weary from his duty to Heaven, so beaten down by denial of what he yearned for most, as if somewhere along the years and years and years of not doing what was true he had lost his true self.

And Crowley…in the anguish of his confusion, Aziraphale had nearly lost his fallen angel—his strength, his faith, his love. _Rest now, my love_. Yes.

Aziraphale felt a tear welling, and then another, and another. He felt gentle fingers brush them away. He reached up a hand to tenderly remove Crowley’s sunglasses. He reached to brush the tears away from Crowley’s cheeks.

“I love you,” he said with more conviction that he had felt in six thousand years. “And yes, we have found our refuge together. Yes, we can rest, and we can forget the world.” He smiled at a sudden lighter, amusing thought. “After all, we gave it the best years of our lives.”

Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale loved his laughter, so easy and so free. 

They let go of each other, and walked on down the path to the stream, and across the footbridge, and back to the village, where they found a room to let for the night.

*

**1350 AD - France**

Crowley did not mind the small, specific tasks he was given by Hell. A temptation here, a bit of mischief there—those tasks were nothing he considered _evil_. 

But he did mind going to trouble spots. Lord Beelzebub liked to toss in a few general requests from time to time, along the lines of “make a bigger mess up there” or “do something to procure souls for our Master”. Then he would have to visit the site of a great battle, or a natural disaster, and hang around long enough to claim he’d had a hand in causing the pain and suffering there.

He had hung around this village in northern France far too long during the plague. The Black Death had taken every single life there—men, women, children—a true horror that left none to grieve, and the last so weak they could no longer bury the dead. And then the last ones died, leaving only a rotting stench.

Crowley used a few good miracles then, despite the risk of someone in Hell taking notice. The dead were buried, and the abandoned animals—goats, chickens, cats, dogs, a few horses and several cows—suddenly found themselves transported to new, plague-free homes far away.

He was the only one left in the empty village on the crisp Autumn morning when he finished his last miracles. He was the only one who could mourn, and so he did. 

Crowley was sitting on a stone bench in front of the village church, where he had buried two small children in the churchyard. His feet were still hot from the burns.

 _Why do I care for the humans…I’m a demon. I’m not supposed to feel this way_.

He had found the children huddled together in their home, in front of a cold hearth, thin and dead. Their parents had died some days earlier, leaving no one to care for them. He had not known this. If he had, he could have tried to save the little ones, but he could do nothing now. Too late. He had found them too late.

Crowley felt full of anger at the Divine Plan then, furious that anyone could allow this much grief, ineffability be damned. And he felt an enormous sorrow.

He allowed a few tears to fall. The sky was gray and leaden, the air felt stagnant, and all the trees were silent of birdsong. 

Then he heard a soft rustling sound, and turned to see Aziraphale walking towards him.

This wasn’t unexpected. The angel often found him at trouble spots, and came to soothe him, to take him away, to help him forget. But where could they go, when all of Europe lay shattered from the plague, when half the people were dying, when fear and agony ruled everywhere?

He hated this century.

“Is there anyone left here for blessings or miracles?” Aziraphale asked when he came to stand by the bench.

Crowley shook his head. “All gone. Every last one.” He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale looked across at the church. He sighed. “So be it. I shall go light some candles, then, and offer a prayer for the safe deliverance of their souls.”

“You _what?”_ Crowley gaped at him. “You’re going to pray to _God?_ Look around, Aziraphale! This is Hell on Earth, and all this suffering _came_ from God! You wouldn’t _need_ to ask deliverance if the Almighty hadn’t sent this monstrous disease.”

“What else do you expect me to do?” Aziraphale shook his head. “I certainly cannot turn my back on God. We cannot know or understand the meaning of the Great Plan—”

“Bollocks to the Great blasted Plan!” Crowley had had enough of this ineffable insanity. He had buried _children_ that morning, children who had died in agony. “How can you still have faith in that bloody crazed plan, after everything you’ve seen on Earth?”

“You are forgetting the good things again, my dear fellow. The good always outweighs the bad—”

“Not from where I’m sitting right now,” Crowley said bitterly.

“Give it time. Time will heal. I am an angel—a servant of God, and I am going to go into the church and pray to Her.”

As he turned away, Crowley muttered, “Good luck waiting for a reply. It’s pointless.”

Aziraphale turned back. “Yes, that may be.”

Crowley stared blankly at him. “Then _why?_ Why bother with _any_ obedience to Heaven— _look_ at what they’ve done! Aziraphale—it doesn’t make any sense. _Why?”_

Aziraphale took a step closer. He spoke softly, firmly. “You cannot ask _why_ in Heaven. You know that. You _did_ that. Shall I tell you how many times I yearned to do what you did, just so that I could mourn the innocent at last? Shall I tell you how many times I crawled inside myself to hide the pain I felt whenever the slightest hint of rebellion rose in my mind?”

Crowley had never heard his friend speak this way, and it shocked him. “Angel—don’t—”

But he went on, his voice rising. “Go on, then, Crowley. Tell me if it’s harder to Fall, to dwell where you do without believing in anything—or if it’s harder to keep believing in the Divine Plan, to carry forth God’s love every single day, knowing you cannot save every suffering creature you come upon, knowing no reason for that suffering, unable to shed tears, knowing you cannot even ask why— _Why?_ Angels do not ask why—because you’re _right_. My God, my Almighty, all-knowing, ineffable God— _does not answer_.”

Stunned, Crowley rose from the bench, and held out his hands. “Stop this—" He hadn’t wanted this—he hadn’t meant for this to happen because of his thoughtless words. Or was it the plague that had done this to his friend—this damnable swath of heartless destruction?

But Aziraphale didn’t stop. “The Divine Plan is ineffable,” he said, and now his tone changed into a harsher plea. “There is nothing harder in this world than the struggle to believe in its mercy. The greatest belief I was ever instilled with, from the beginning, was that _God is good_. What do you want me to do? Stand against what I have had faith in forever? Do you know what my greatest fear is, Crowley? It’s a fear that carries me from one dark place to the next on this Earth—the fear of being _wrong_ about God.” His voice softened then as he looked at Crowley, with haunted eyes where once he’d seen only brightness.

“Go on,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Tell me that I am wrong. Tell me that the Divine Plan makes no sense and never has and never will and all the suffering on Earth is pointless. Tell me nothing here served any purpose, tell me that _God is not good_. Can you do that? Can you take away the ground on which I stand?”

Crowley could not speak, because he felt shattered. He swallowed, and shook his head. He couldn’t speak, because he felt broken. Instead, he turned away and hobbled away on aching feet, without looking back.

*

He had a long time to think. 

After painfully walking around the whole village once, in the chilly silence of this dreadful day, Crowley returned to the stone bench across from the church. 

He sat there, waiting for Aziraphale to come out, and he thought over everything the angel had confessed to him. Out of that diatribe, he had heard one line that reverberated in his mind. _I yearned to do what you did, just so that I could mourn the innocent at last._

Maybe he could not help Aziraphale with his fears, nor stand beside him in his faith—but he knew there was one thing that his friend needed to do. And it was something he knew how to do.

At midday, the sun broke weakly through the gray clouds. Aziraphale walked out of the church. He spied Crowley, and he did not seem surprised. He strolled across the street to join him on the bench.

“Lighting the candles took a long time,” Aziraphale said softly. “There were so many…and the prayers. So many children lived here.”

“I know.”

They simply sat there quietly for some time, and Crowley knew Aziraphale was not angry with him, nor was he upset with the angel. He had been an angel once, a long, long time ago. He did remember what it had been to love God.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong. Don’t listen to me when I’m wrong.”

Aziraphale, who sat so close that their thighs touched, took Crowley’s hand, a closeness he had never permitted before. “Thank you. I believe I may have spoken harshly myself. All the dead that I have seen these past few years…so much agony…it has tested my faith severely.” He sighed. “Do forgive me.”

“Comes from holding back your feelings too long.” Crowley pressed their joined hands. “Angel, there’s something I want you to do.”

“Yes?”

Crowley touched his face. “I want you to cry.”

Aziraphale blinked as a gentle furrow creased his brow. “You want me to _cry?”_

“For the children buried in that churchyard. And more. I want you to cry for the children who drowned in the Flood. Here, now, five thousand years too late, I want you to cry for them, and for every innocent being—human, animal, doesn’t matter, they’re all the same—it’s time you grieved, Aziraphale.” 

He had thought it all out, he had figured things out this day. “It doesn’t have to mean you’re questioning God. All it means is that something you loved was lost, and you never knew why—but it wasn’t the _not knowing_ that made you sad, Angel. It was the loss itself, only that, and nothing more. Mourn _that_ , Aziraphale. It isn’t a sin to grieve for all the love that is gone.”

Aziraphale stared straight ahead, gazing at the church across the way. Crowley just kept holding his hand, stroking his fingers across its top in a gentle, circular motion.

He waited, and watched, and after a short while, the first tear trickled down the angel’s cheek. 

It was followed by another, and another, and when the flood came, when the sobs began, when Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s arm fiercely as his body trembled, when the tears flowed like rain, Crowley took him into his arms. 

He held on, arms wrapped round the angel, and Aziraphale wept, head against his shoulder, hands clutching his shirt. He wept in great, racking sobs that rent the air, that tore through the heavens above. Thousands of years of hidden sorrow welled up into one long ululation. This was grief unrefined.

Aziraphale cried. 

Crowley put one hand round the back of his head, cradling it as Aziraphale rocked against him, moving his body in rhythm to the keening of his long lament. Crowley held him, and said nothing, for there were no words which could comfort this sadness. All he could do was wait, and hold on, and so he did.

He lost track of time, and time lost all meaning. He had no idea how long it took for Aziraphale’s agitated motions to cease, and when they eased at last, his friend stilled against him as the wailing cries diminished. The sobs lessened, and the hands grasping him lightened their grip. 

Crowley ran his fingers in a gentle caress through Aziraphale’s hair, and he whispered, “ _Breathe, Angel.”_

He heard a light sniffling sound, a little whimper, and then Aziraphale lifted his head, and looked at Crowley, his face wet with tears, and he took a deep breath. He let it out in a half-choking sob, gulped, and tried once more. Another breath, a lesser sob, and another one, and a lighter cry, and yet more deep breaths followed until the tears stopped.

Aziraphale fingered Crowley’s damp shirt where his head had rested. “So many tears….” He reached to touch Crowley’s cheek. “You cried now too, didn’t you.”

Crowley had. They were fewer tears, the ones he had shed while holding his friend in comfort, for he had had thousands of years to mourn the Earth’s losses. “Not the same at all.”

Aziraphale nodded. He stayed where he was, resting against Crowley’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

At length, they released their hold. Crowley nodded towards the church. “Did you do all you needed to do in there?”

“I did.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “After I finished my duty to the souls of this village, I asked one more thing of Her.” He paused. “I asked for Her forgiveness.”

Crowley started. “Why—you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It wasn’t for me.”

Crowley knew demons were unforgiveable. Though what had he done, he had come to wonder, that merited forgiveness? He had questioned, again, here in this lifeless village. _Why?_

He had never believed, from the very beginning, that it should be a sin to want an answer. “No, I won’t be forgiven.” Even were it possible, he wasn’t certain he wanted to speak with God, if that was what it took. “That won’t happen.”

“Perhaps someday you might be proved wrong.”

Well, he was immortal—“someday” might be a million years from now. He smiled. “All right. I’ll give you that one.” Crowley brushed his fingers over Aziraphale’s face, wiping away the last of the wetness lingering there. “Come on, let’s get out of this place.”

They rose and turned down the plain dirt road leading out of the village, and neither of them looked back.

*

**An Owl in the Night – The South Downs**

Aziraphale lay in bed on his back at the small inn they had found for the night. Crowley was sound asleep, curled alongside him, an arm over his chest.

The hot summer air inside the room had been stifling when they first settled in, so they had opened the modest window. Now, near midnight, Aziraphale enjoyed cool air wafting through the room, and rustling the drapes.

Somewhere, an owl called three times.

“Right,” he said aloud to the ceiling. “The owl is nice, but I believe we have heard Your message loud and clear.”

The bird went silent.

Aziraphale smiled. “Even Crowley heard it. I am glad You are still speaking to him, Lord.”

The drapes rustled just a little louder then.

Crowley murmured into Aziraphale’s neck, and shifted about a bit. 

“Are you awake, my dear?”

“Nope.”

“Very well, be that way.”

Crowley sleepily reached to pull the comforter up around them. “Cold.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale looked at the window. He snapped his fingers. The window shut, and the drapes closed.

“Thanks.”

Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm-hm.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and told himself firmly to get some rest, and to have nothing but pleasant dreams—and he wished the same for his dear friend.


	4. By Way of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley move to the South Downs cottage, where domestic challenges await.
> 
> Historical scenes: DaVinci's Milan (1493); Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet (1595)

**1493 - Milan**

The Duke’s gala was a splendid affair.

Aziraphale had partaken of all twenty-three courses of the sumptuous banquet. He had enjoyed the amusements provided by a jester and several acrobats. Now he rested on a chair in the grand ballroom watching dozens of Milan’s wealthiest citizens dance in elegant movements.

Crowley was among them. He looked splendid in black hose and doublet, with bits of red showing through slashes in the sleeves. His hair cascaded in dark red waves to below his shoulders, and his face was clean-shaven. 

He was beautiful.

And he moved well across the wooden floor, sliding, gliding, making neat sharp turns, in time with the precisely measured, slow and stately rhythms of the _bassa danza_. 

Then the music ended, and a livelier folk tune began. Several people on the dance floor clapped their hands and shouted with joy. Midnight had come and gone hours ago, most of the guests were well past inebriation, and it seemed they were tired of stiffer, courtly dances.

They swept round the floor, swirling, twirling, leaping—at times the men took to lifting the women up in the air. It was intoxicating.

As Aziraphale watched Crowley laugh, and spin his numerous partners round, he found his foot tapping with the heady beat. _Oh dear._

Angels, of course, did not dance.

Suddenly, he wondered why.

As the late-night frolics wove on into the next day’s dawning, he listened, and moved his feet without daring to rise, and as he saw the joy on Crowley’s face, Aziraphale wished he could forget Heavenly rules just this once.

It was wrong, of course. So he kept to his seat, and watched, all alone in the crowded ballroom.

When the lively dance ended, Crowley started across the floor towards him, but stopped when a voice called out from the opposite end. “Mio amico Corvo!”

Crowley turned. “Leonardo—what are you drinking, you clever bastard?”

Aziraphale sighed as Crowley moved off to greet his human friend. Then he rose and went in search of a bottle of wine…or possibly two or three.

*

He found Valaron in his Grand Workshop office, pouring over technical drawings spread across his huge desk. 

Valaron barely looked up. “Yes, what is it?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I was wondering if Angels might be allowed to try dancing.”

“Certainly not,” Valaron huffed. “Such physicality would be unseemly.”

“Oh, but the music is so full of rhythm and beauty—I find it fills my whole being with a desire to _move_.”

“You are speaking of _Earthly_ music. We are angels. Celestial music is the only kind for us—it is divine, it is harmonious, and it should _never_ inspire the gross display of physical motion.”

“But why—” Aziraphale broke off. _One never asks Why in Heaven._

“Human music is a pale imitation, a crude attempt at true harmonies. Do not overindulge in Earthly delights, Aziraphale. They are a snare. They will endanger your very soul.”

In his mind’s eye, Aziraphale saw the Duke’s ballroom again, and he heard the intoxicating music, and he saw Crowley dancing, his face alight with happiness.

_Oh dear_. Had he overindulged? Had he been having too much _fun?_ Crowley often talked about “going native”, of how wonderful human pleasures were. Of course, he came from Hell. Naturally, Earthly enjoyments were better for him. But Aziraphale was an angel. Surely Heavenly delights could not compare with those on Earth. 

He thought about returning here someday—if, or when, his service to humanity came to an end. Would he be happy eating bland foods made from tasteless ambrosia? Would he enjoy listening to naught but celestial harmonies? 

There would be no books, either—unless he made visits to the circles of Heaven where human souls dwelled, where books had been recreated. How much time could he spend on those levels before someone such as Valaron started to wonder what he found so attractive there?

And then he had another, more troublesome thought.

Would he be happy in Heaven—without Crowley?

*

**Something in Common – Driving to London**

Their offer for the cottage was naturally accepted, but even miracles couldn’t move the paperwork through quickly. Their move-in date was a good month or more away.

“Time to get everything prepared,” Aziraphale said as they drove back to London. He rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be _fun.”_

“Moving is going to be fun?”

“Yes, because we are moving into our first home _together_. We’ll get to choose the décor together, and decide what to take from London, and how to arrange everything. We will fix the place up precisely the way we wish.”

“The house comes furnished. You liked the furnishings.”

“I did. But not all of it. Obviously, I’ll want to take a few things from the bookshop.” He considered the unsuitable furniture Crowley had in his Mayfair flat. That throne chair was utterly atrocious. He did have a few nice art pieces, though. “You should bring the Mona Lisa. And perhaps a few of those smaller statues.”

“Uh-huh. No room for the angel and demon statue, hm? Or the eagle lectern? You like the lectern.”

Truth to tell, Aziraphale liked the _idea_ of the lectern—that Crowley had saved it as a souvenir of his rescue effort—more than the piece itself. Too big, and it certainly would not fit in to an Edwardian country cottage. “Well, perhaps it could go in the garden.” Concealed within a lot of shrubbery, perhaps.

“What about your books? They won’t all fit in there.”

“No.” Aziraphale would have to decide which ones to take, and which to leave in Soho for their weekend visits. “I shall turn my bedroom into a library and study. The rolltop desk can go in there, and a small selection of my favorite books. Perhaps two thousand or so might fit, do you think?”

Crowley nearly swerved onto the shoulder. “ _Two thousand_ is ‘small’?”

“It will take some time to sort through them all.” Aziraphale decided to be generous. “Of course, if you’d like to add any in, I’d be happy to give you half a shelf. Your book on astronomy, for example.”

Crowley snorted. “Half a shelf. Generous.”

“You don’t read that much, my dear.”

“Whatever. _I’m_ going to turn _my_ room into an entertainment center. The TV, music system, comfy chair, wine rack…hm, you’re right. This _could_ be fun.”

Aziraphale did not care for the idea of Crowley’s so-called ‘music’ blaring throughout their peaceful cottage. “Be sure to bring headphones, will you?”

Crowley laughed. “We’re doing a fine job of working out our new lifestyle _together_ , Angel.”

“So we have a few disparities in our tastes. I’m certain we can come to some suitable compromises.” 

“I hope so.”

“We _do_ both like _some_ things. Fine dining, good wine.” Aziraphale paused. Surely there was more than that?

“Theater,” Crowley supplied. “We both enjoy attending the theater.”

“Oh, that’s true!” He brightened. Then he frowned. “But I don’t suppose they have any live theater in such a small village.”

“Lots of bigger towns nearby. Might have a community stage not far off.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands. “We must investigate. That will be fun as well—discovering all of the amenities in the area.” And of course, they could go to plays whenever they visited London.

“So long as you’re happy, Angel, I’ll be happy.”

“Oh, really? You didn’t sound terribly enthused earlier.”

“It’s still too new—haven’t taken it all in.”

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s arm. “It was rather unexpected, and happened amazingly fast. We _are_ doing the right thing, though. I am certain of it.”

Being certain of doing the right thing felt decidedly unusual to Aziraphale. He had a pleasant feeling it would become the norm from now on.

*

**1595 AD - London**

Crowley introduced Aziraphale to the theater way back in ancient Greece—because it was lively and fun and he had a habit of pursuing such entertainments, and though Aziraphale knew he wasn’t supposed to enjoy earthly pleasures he rationalized it as a way to “blend in” with human society.

“I ought to keep up appearances,” he told himself whenever he felt mild pangs of guilt over his enjoyment of human frivolities. “Wouldn’t do to stand apart from society too much.”

He decided, early on during his growing love of the dramatic arts, not to ask Valaron if such things were frowned upon in Heaven. 

Shakespeare’s works were beyond compare. Aziraphale was delighted when Crowley suggested meeting up at a performance of his recent effort, _Romeo and Juliet_. The play was popular, with large crowds, and he was even more pleased when Crowley miraculously got them a private box. 

His friend usually appreciated the plays they saw. A dramatic fellow himself, Crowley relished seeing exaggerated emotional displays and lively action on the stage. This evening, however, Aziraphale could not help noticing how quiet he went early on. And by the end of the first act, Crowley was openly fidgeting and frowning.

“Something wrong?” he asked. 

“I don’t care for the way this is going,” Crowley replied. “They’re obviously in love by the end of that ball, but they aren’t going to be allowed to be with each other.”

Aziraphale knew Crowley preferred the comedies to the tragedies. But he found this story compelling, and wished to see it through. “The language is magnificent, you must grant that? And these actors are doing it justice.”

“The fellow does have a way with words.” Crowley sighed. “Fine. But if there isn’t a sword fight soon, I’m off out of here.”

The sword fight came in act three. Crowley livened up at that, though he was displeased by the outcome. “Damn. I was rooting for Mercutio. I’m with him—a plague on both their houses.”

He turned morose once more. Aziraphale tried to cheer him by buying some wine to share, but it failed to lift his spirits.

By the fourth act, he was ready to hurl his wine at the stage. “I hate this play.”

“I’m so sorry. If you wish to leave—”

“It’s bloody awful, Angel—can’t you see that?”

“No, I cannot see why you feel such antipathy.”

“Do you honestly think this ridiculous fake death notion will work? They’re both going to _really_ die. I’ll stake my next year’s non-celestial wages on that. And the only reason they’re going to die is because they tried to love each other!”

“That would make for a powerful tragedy, indeed,” Aziraphale replied. “These two young people, through no fault of their own, meeting their doom because of the powers above them forbidding their—” He broke off, abruptly aware of why this disturbed his friend.

“I don’t think I want to see the last act,” Crowley said quietly.

The powers above them…not their fault…only wishing to love one another. He looked at Crowley. Could an impossible question be asked, here and now? 

Aziraphale looked away. He could no longer focus on the stage, or the actors declaiming upon it. A love that could not be allowed would only come to a heartbreaking end. “You are right. I should like to leave now, Crowley.”

They walked through the crowded streets of London, keeping each other company in silence. When they reached Crowley’s lodging place, he went straight on past, and Aziraphale said nothing, knowing that his friend needed to see him safely back to his own home.

The crowds thinned as they wound their way farther and farther from the inner city. By the time they reached Aziraphale’s lodging-house, the dark street was empty, and the buildings were shrouded in a moonless, cloud-covered sky. 

They paused at the entryway. Aziraphale was about to speak, to say something, anything to break the uneasy quiet, but before he could, Crowley swiftly pulled him into a tight embrace.

Aziraphale gasped, but spoke not a single word. Crowley held him, breathing hard, and then he pulled back just enough to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. Behind the dark glasses which barely concealed his serpentine eyes, Aziraphale saw great yearning within, and he felt a wave of love flow over him.

“Crowley, you can’t—” He gulped, uncertain, and afraid. “We can’t…even if we wish to—” He bit his lip and looked away, unable to say more.

Without a word, Crowley released his hold. He turned and sped down the street into the shadows.

Aziraphale stood there, shaken, his soul in disarray. 

He looked up to the heavens, darkened and forbidding.

He looked back at the street where Crowley had vanished—his friend who had sent that flood of affection into Aziraphale’s heart, capsizing him.

“ _This love that thou hast shown_ ,” he said into the night, “ _doth add more grief to too much of mine own_.”

Then he turned to enter the lodging-house, and entered his rooms, where he sat for a long time staring at his hands. He stared at the golden ring of heaven which he had worn for an eternity, and he slowly turned it round and round his finger, long into the night.

*

**Domesticity – The South Downs**

Aziraphale stared at the lumpish, too-thick, slightly burnt circle of alleged crepe in the pan. He looked over at Crowley, who lounged in the kitchen doorway, sipping his morning tea. “Perhaps I could call it a pancake?”

Crowley shook his head, a little smile twitching at his lips. “That’s the tenth attempt, Angel. Time to go down to the village café.”

“I could make eggs.” He had gotten good at eggs, though Aziraphale had to admit the skill level for scrambling them was not high.

“Again?” 

“Well, you don’t have to eat them. You rarely do.” Crowley preferred to nibble on toast with marmalade.

Crowley shrugged. “You’re not going to master cooking in one month, Angel.”

Possibly the dear fellow had a point. They had moved into the cottage in mid-September, and he dived into cooking experiments with great enthusiasm, but it was only the middle of October now, and perhaps crepes were too much of a challenge for such a short apprenticeship.

He studied the cookbook, and reread the description for the eleventh time. Perhaps the heat wasn’t low enough, or even enough. Could there be something wrong with the stove?

“Not everything you need to know is in books.” Crowley set his tea down and went into the dining room, where he picked up the thin, rectangular, book-sized computer thing he’d taken to lately. 

“Nonsense. Books are far superior to that gadget of yours.”

“Really?” Crowley returned to the kitchen. He poked his finger at the device. “Here. Take a look.”

Aziraphale saw a man in a chef’s hat on the screen, making a crepe. “Oh, my.” He watched, fascinated, as the fellow used first a spatula, and then his fingers to perfectly flip the crepe. That had been his downfall every time. “I’ve only been using the spatula. Hm.”

He spooned another dollop of the thin batter into the pan. He waited until the edges turned golden. Then he used the chef’s technique to flip it. “Ah! It worked!”

“Good. I want strawberries and powdered sugar in mine, please.”

Oh, dear. He’d wanted this perfect crepe for himself. But for love of Crowley, Aziraphale placed the finished crepe on a plate, added the strawberries and sugar, and handed it over. 

He sighed as he gazed at the pan. 

He dearly hoped he could manage to make more than one of them.

*

**1719 AD – Heaven**

On the 200th anniversary of Leonardo da Vinci’s death, Aziraphale went to the human circles to pay him a visit.

He and Crowley had been visiting France for a while, traveling in the same areas, performing their various duties. They had been near Tours when Crowley was reminded, by a newspaper article on the upcoming anniversary, that da Vinci was buried nearby in Amboise. 

“Been to the chapel a few times,” he told Aziraphale. “Couldn’t go in—consecrated ground. Burns my feet. But it’s a lovely place on the outside. You know, I went to look for Leonardo in Hell after he died. Thought for sure the scoundrel would wind up there. But he didn’t.”

“No? That’s a good thing.”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, it is. Just wish I could have seen him—you know, make sure he was all right.”

Aziraphale had not known Crowley to make friends with humans, either before or after da Vinci. “He was special, wasn’t he?”

“Never known anyone that brilliant,” Crowley agreed. “His mind never rested—he would love not having to sleep ever again. Fascinating fellow to hang about with, and not just for the inventions and discoveries and the art. He was exciting, and he was _fun_. Full of life, always asking questions, and not stopping until he found an answer. Never saw so much _fire_ in a human before.”

Perhaps, Aziraphale realized, there had been an unusual affinity between them because of the fire within Crowley, and his own ceaseless questioning.

“You know, _I_ could go to see him. Make sure he’s fine—though if he’s in Heaven, I’m certain he is happy.”

Crowley brightened at the thought. “Would you? Just—you know, just take a look to make sure?”

“Yes, I will do so.”

And so now here he was, on the heavenly planes where human souls resided. He found da Vinci at a replica of an Italian Villa, in a garden plaza, where he sat on a bench, drawing.

Though da Vinci had lived to near seventy, he appeared as if in the prime of his youth, a handsome man with fine features and long wavy hair. Far across the stone patio, several attractive young men played a game of bocce, while another young man relaxed nearer by, lounging in a hammock eating grapes.

“My dear Andrea,” da Vinci called to him. “Do stop moving your hands about so vigorously.”

Aziraphale approached quietly. He watched da Vinci as he sketched the young man, his left hand moving swiftly and assuredly across the paper.

When he finished the drawing, da Vinci looked over at him. “We don't see angels here often.”

“Hello,” Aziraphale said as he smiled. “That's a wonderful likeness.”

“Thank you.” He set the drawing aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance?”

“I wished simply to know if you have all that you desire.”

Da Vinci smiled. “I am in Heaven. What could I possibly lack?” He waved around the garden. “Beauty wherever I look, surrounded by my friends.” His gaze fell upon the one he’d called Andrea. “And my one dearest friend.”

Aziraphale knew that look of affection well. He had seen it often, when Crowley looked at _him_. He felt a sudden ache in his heart. “I'm so glad to hear it.”

Then da Vinci made a longer, more studied appraisal of Aziraphale. “Perhaps there is one thing you may tell me. One of my friends from my years in Milan is not here. I do hate to think he is in hell instead. Do you know of whom I speak? I used to tease him for his never-changing black clothes, and I called him the Crow. Can you tell me where he dwells?”

Aziraphale thought of the various ways he could answer, and settled for the truth. “He lives on Earth still.”

“Ah. I did wonder at times. I knew him for over fifteen years in Milan, yet he aged not a day. He had no means of support, yet never wanted for anything. Is he also an angel?”

Aziraphale pondered. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“He was a dashing, free-spirited fellow with a good heart, and I would have loved him had he but let me.” Da Vinci looked even more closely at Aziraphale. “I am quite good at remembering faces. You were in Milan as well, were you not?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, I was.”

“My wild crow was fond of my company. And I was fond of his. But I could see that his heart belonged to another.” He smiled. “I will assume there is a compelling reason why he cannot come here himself. Do tell him that I am happy.”

“I will.” Aziraphale bid da Vinci good day, and walked out of Heaven with an unusual sense of melancholy filling his soul.

*

**By Any Other Name – The South Downs**

_Al mio amico Antonio dal tuo amico Leo da V._

Aziraphale read the inscription at the bottom of Crowley’s _Mona Lisa_ sketch. _To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V._

Crowley had hung it in the bedroom he’d taken over for his entertainment space, opposite the huge television screen that dwarfed one wall. “Looks all right there, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it’s fine, though it hardly goes with the rest of your modern décor.” Aside from the sleek television, there was a glass and chrome coffee table, where Crowley’s computer device thing lay, and a black leather sofa. On a set of shiny metallic shelves that seemed to float on one wall, he had arranged his smaller pieces of art and souvenirs.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley sank onto the sofa. “Suits me better than all that clutter in your room.”

Aziraphale had crammed his own room with the rolltop desk from the bookshop, and he had lined the walls with bookcases. He had a lovely Aubusson area rug, floral in shades of beige and blue. There were several side tables for his Victorian fringed reading lamps, and several etageres for his various collections of smaller statuary, and his Regency snuffboxes.

It was terribly crowded, and he found it ever so cozy. 

He joined Crowley on his sofa, which had neither pillows nor a throw to make it more comfortable. “I like the clutter in my room.”

“Yeah, it does suit you.”

At least they had managed to compromise on their shared bedroom, keeping things mostly simple—the bed, a chest of drawers, and two nightstands. Aziraphale had added a framed painting—a landscape in the Constable vein. Crowley had added a houseplant.

They loved being here together, but it was good for each to have his own space at times. Aziraphale had no intention of spending hours and hours in Crowley’s room, nor vice versa. They spent plenty of time together in the kitchen, the dining room, the sitting room—and in the bedroom where they slept every night.

“Your friend Leonardo,” Aziraphale said, as he thought about the inscription on the sketch, “used to call you ‘Crow’, didn’t he?”

“ _Corvo._ And often _il mio corvo selvaggio._ My wild crow.”

“I don’t recall anyone calling you Antonio back then.” Aziraphale had not learned of that addition to his friend’s name until over four hundred years later, during the Blitz. “Why did you not tell me in Milan that you’d chosen Antony for a first name?” 

“Didn’t use it that often. Just when I needed another name for human reasons—signing a lease, showing identification—you know. Didn’t really think of it much.”

“Well, as your closest friend, I should think you might have mentioned it sooner.”

“Really? You’ve never told me what the ‘A’ and the ‘Z’ stand for in _A. Z. Fell.”_

Aziraphale shrugged. “They are the same as your mysterious ‘J’. They’re just letters. And the whole thing sounds the closest I could come to my one name.”

“Azyfell?” Crowley snorted. “Is that legal, just using initials?”

“Well, not always.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands. “Sometimes I’ve had to come up with a proper first name.”

“Oh? Do tell. What do you use?”

“Must I?”

Crowley leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Best friends, remember? Can tell each other anything. So go on. Spill your big secret. What name do you use? Pity I wasn’t paying attention when you signed the sales agreement for this cottage.”

“No, you were too busy breaking open the champagne.”

“Well, then?”

Aziraphale kissed him on the lips, ever so lightly. Then he smiled. “I used to sign legal documents Angelus Z. Fell. But I changed it recently. The name of the sales document for the cottage is _Ashtoreth_ Z. Fell.”

Crowley burst into a laugh. “You never!”

Aziraphale laughed with him. “I did!”

“You clever angel.”

“I shall do so from now on.”

“People are likely to make comments.”

“I will simply tell them it’s an old family name.” 

Crowley pulled him into a brief embrace. “Love you, _Ashtoreth Z. Fell_.”

“I love you too, _Antonio_.”


	5. Into the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley celebrate Christmas in their new home. 
> 
> Historical scenes: 1862, 1887, and 1941 -- a time when the friendship was tested nearly to destruction.

**1862 – Hell**

“Lord Beelzebub.” Crowley bowed. “Always an honor.”

The throne room was dank. The paint peeled off the walls, and the odor of something long rotten permeated the space. Not for the first time, he wondered why the vast powers of Hell couldn’t manage decent interior decorating.

“Crowley.” Beelzebub tapped a sheaf of crumpled paper. “There iszz a question about your performance Up There.”

_Uh-oh_. He strove for his usual nonchalance. _Don’t let them find out about the angel._ “Right. Might have taken a longer nap than usual. Sorry.”

“Before that.”

“What? When?”

“The turn of the century. At the opening of a certain bookshop.” Beelzebub leaned forward. “Sound familiar?”

Crowley resisted the urge to bat away the flies swirling around. “Er. Um. Bookshop?” Had they somehow found out about the way he had fooled Gabriel into leaving Aziraphale in place on Earth? 

“A demon had occaszzion to visit Soho one day to do a little temptation, and happened to see a certain performance in an alley.”

Crowley, wrapped up back then in his desperate ploy to save Aziraphale from promotion back to Heaven, had not noticed. “Right. Um. What exactly did this demon see?”

“You. Pretending to speak to another demon. You, claiming the angel of the bookshop thwarted you at every turn. YOU threatening to swallow holy water. Not a bad idea. WHAT were you playing at?”

“Nothing! Just a joke!” Crowley’s nonchalance had abandoned him. He struggled to keep his knees from shaking in fear. “Having a bit of fun. Anyway, that was ages ago. My work is much more effective now. I, er, did some great stuff over in the colonies recently with a civil war—”

“So you claim.”

Crowley’s knees shook. Had they finally figured out that a few…some…well, most of his evil claims were faked? He tried to distract from the issue. “Why wait until now?”

Beelzebub crumpled the paper into a ball. “It was filed at the time, but was misplaced.”

Ah. That explained it. Hellish paperwork never did work very well. Nobody wanted to do all that filing, things frequently got put in the wrong spot, and the papers that did get filed properly often got eaten by rats. “Well, um, sorry for any trouble. I’ll just get back Up There and cause more trouble. Lots and lots of it. Promise.”

“You had better be telling the truth.” Lord Beelzebub turned the crumpled paper into a ball of flame, and then a pile of ashes, which fell to the damp floor. “Or there will be _consequencesszzz.”_

Crowley left the throne room, his nerves shot.

There had to be something he could do…there had to be a way, in case they ever found out what he’d been doing, what he had lied about, and who he had become close friends with… _insurance_ …that was what he needed.

In case they ever came calling for his destruction.

*

**1862 – Heaven**

“Aziraphale. I have received a disturbing report.”

He sat in Valaron’s office, where his mentor sat behind his desk. He was joined by the archangel Gabriel, who stood close to Aziraphale’s chair. 

Aziraphale’s hands felt restless. “Oh?”

“It comes from the Earthly year 1800. For some reason, we only received it recently from—” Valaron hesitated. “Back channels.”

“I’m not certain what that means.”

“Our methods of communication,” Gabriel put in, “are not something you need concern yourself over. But this report is something you should be very much concerned about.”

_Oh dear_. Aziraphale thought back to 1800—that was the year he opened the bookshop. And the year he had nearly been promoted, until Crowley stepped in to save him. He gulped. “Um, what exactly is the issue?”

“You have had a single adversary on Earth since the beginning,” Gabriel continued. “We’re aware of this.”

Of course they _knew_ about Crowley. They had to. “Yes. A wily adversary indeed. Keeps me on my toes.”

“Have you been in the habit of conversing with this demon, Aziraphale?”

“What? No!” His hands were now sweating. “Why ever would I want to do that?”

Valaron tapped a pen on his desk. “Are you working hard to thwart this demon at every turn?”

“Of course I am. That goes without saying.” He willed his fingers to keep still.

“In 1800,” Valaron said, “you were going to be promoted back to Heaven. Something any right-minded angel would have wished for.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Aziraphale’s forehead. He absently brushed it away. “Yes. Absolutely.” He managed a weak smile. “Gabriel kindly brought a medal. But then he left the shop for a while, and when he returned, he told me that I should stay on Earth.” He swallowed. “Not sure why. Naturally, I have no idea why things changed, none at all.”

Gabriel leaned in closer, his violet eyes cold. “I changed my mind after overhearing the demon Crowley extolling your methods, and threatening to drink holy water should you continue to obstruct him in his Hellish duties.”

“Oh? How peculiar. I couldn’t possibly have known that, of course.” 

“I find it… _interesting_ ,” Gabriel replied, “that the demon Crowley is still on Earth. He appears to have forgotten his pledge to destroy himself.”

Aziraphale felt his body trembling from that unfeeling gaze. “He must have changed his mind. I am still thwarting his efforts vigorously at every turn.”

“Really? It was not some sort of clever ruse to keep you on Earth, where you seem to be enjoying your bookshop a great deal?”

“Er…not at all.” Aziraphale brushed away another trickle of sweat. “The bookshop is merely a base for my heavenly tasks. Nothing more than that.”

Valaron stared at him for some time, his brow furrowed. Then he leaned forward. “Angels are not meant to enjoy Earthly things. I have told you this in the past. Do not bring undue notice to your actions Down There, Aziraphale. Perform your duty to Heaven. The consequences for behavior unbecoming an angel can be severe.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nodded his head firmly. “Yes, I will. Of course. Thank you. May I leave now? Must get back to my duties!” 

Gabriel stared at him for several long seconds before straightening. “Get out.” He waved an imperious hand. “And _behave.”_

Aziraphale shoved out of his chair and strode quickly from the office.

*

**Not Without Any Presents – The South Downs**

When December rolled around, Aziraphale decided they had to have a proper Christmas in their first home. Decorative figurines on the mantel, stockings hung below. Giant snowflakes on the windowpanes. Red and green candles everywhere. Twinkling lights around the eaves outside.

And of course, a tree.

Crowley indulged him, most likely because he had visions of gingerbread men in his head. “You’re going to bake lots of cookies, right?” he had asked when Aziraphale proposed the scheme. “With icing?”

“My culinary skills can handle cookies with icing, yes.” Such a sweet tooth the dear fellow had. “So, we can get a tree to decorate?”

“It’s a bit twee,” Crowley replied. “But then, so are you. Let’s do it.”

They found a perfect Norway spruce, some six feet tall, which barely fit in a corner of the sitting room after some rearranging of the furniture. They drove up to London one weekend, where they spent a long time in Harrods collecting tree decorations, wine and champagne, and a hamper full of festive foods. 

“Are you sure we needed two dozen mince pies?” Aziraphale asked upon their return to the South Downs cottage. The boot and the entire back seat of the Bentley had been crammed full of boxes, and it had taken a good hour to unload and unpack.

“They’re small,” Crowley said. “And I like them.”

“Fine. Where are we going to _put_ them all?”

They had purchased an awful lot of food. It couldn’t possibly fit in the refrigerator. “I suppose if we had a separate, full freezer that would do the trick.”

Crowley snapped his fingers. The mud room off the kitchen suddenly grew a little bigger, enough to accommodate the new freezer purring away there.

“That’s handy, my dear. Thank you.”

Crowley snagged a mince pie. “Cocoa and treats on the sofa sound good? I’m worn out.”

They relaxed in the sitting room before a crackling fire, sharing Christmas biscuits along with the pie, and drinking cocoa laced with amaretto liqueur.

Aziraphale looked at the spruce, which they had not yet added the trimmings to. “Shall we decorate the tree tonight? Or are you too tired?”

“Why don’t you start, and I’ll direct your efforts.”

“Lazy.”

“Yup.” Crowley curled up on the sofa, beneath a tartan fleece throw. “You made this place too comfortable.”

Aziraphale stifled a desire to curl up alongside him and not move for the rest of the evening. He adored Christmas trees and he was itching to put up the decorations. He got up and began opening packages of colored balls and garlands, and ornaments of sparkling gold and silver, and of glass—crafted into reindeer, sleighs, a Santa Claus, several snowmen, various birds, a few rabbits and of course, a pair of angels for the top. 

He snapped his fingers, turning one of the angels’ wings to black. He showed it to Crowley. “Good?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the black-winged angel’s golden hair turned fiery red. “Better.”

Aziraphale placed it beside the white-winged angel atop the tree. Then he set about draping the spruce with garlands and strings of lights.

As he worked, Crowley directed his efforts with care. 

“That blue and silver garland needs coming down a bit on the right. Not even. No, too far—up a little—got it.”

“Too many red balls on the left side. Take out three or so, move in a few gold ones there.”

“That dove might look better next to the harp.”

“Too many rabbit ornaments. Why did you buy all of those?”

“I _like_ rabbits,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Put some round the back side, then, out of sight.”

Eventually Crowley managed to get off the sofa, and he came over to help hang the rest of the ornaments. They bustled round the tree for another hour, getting in each other’s way, and moving things the other put up. But at long last the decorating was finished.

Aziraphale plugged in the lights. He turned down the sitting room lights. The twinkling Christmas tree sparkled and illuminated the space, while firelight reflected off the glass ornaments.

He clapped his hands in joy. “Beautiful!” 

Crowley, standing close beside him, slid an arm around his waist. Aziraphale reciprocated. “Good job, Angel.”

“It only needs one other thing. _Presents!”_

“Uh-oh.” Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him. “We’re buying presents?”

“Of _course_ we must have gifts for each other!” They’d just have to go back to Town and do some more shopping. “It will be _fun_.”

Crowley pumped a fist in the air. “Yay.”

“Oh, come on—you like the tree.”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“And you like the foods we got. And I’m fairly certain you will enjoy the champagne as well. This is going to be a wonderful Christmas. Oh! I should see about getting a turkey. Hm. Never cooked anything that large before…perhaps I should practice first on a few chickens…oh, and the stuffing—how does one prepare stuffing? Goodness, there’s so much to learn and to do and to get and—"

“Angel.”

He felt Crowley’s arm tighten around his waist. “Yes, my dear?”

“Calm down. Take it slowly. It’s only the tenth. Plenty of time. _Relax_.”

“Yes, well, but it’s our first one together and I do so want everything to be _perfect.”_

Crowley let go his hold, and turned Aziraphale to him. He placed his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “It will be fine. We’re _together_. That’s all that matters.” He leaned in for a kiss.

Aziraphale kept his eyes open, the better to see the Christmas lights reflected in Crowley’s eyes. _Lovely_. Crowley’s lips met his, and they kissed longer than usual. It felt delightfully warm and soothing, and full of the deepest affection. _Calm down_. Yes. His dear friend was quite right.

When the kiss ended, Aziraphale pulled Crowley into a hug. Everything would be fine. He knew now that even if the turkey dinner wasn’t perfect, or the gifts were less than exciting, it truly didn’t matter. He was with the one being he loved, and who loved him, and the world was theirs.

“I’ll go make some more cocoa,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear. Then he pulled out of the embrace. “We can spend the evening having a long, relaxing cuddle while gazing at our wonderful tree.”

As he headed towards the kitchen, Crowley called after him. “Bring another one of those mince pies, Angel.”

He brought two.

*

**1887 AD – London**

He knew perfectly well that he shouldn’t be dancing.

The men’s club in Portland Place was festooned with Christmas decorations, and the punch flowed freely that night. The camaraderie between the men filled the air with laughter and delight. 

And yet Aziraphale did not feel the spirit of the season. 

So many centuries he had spent on this Earth knowing that he had one companion through the endless years—could it truly be lost, that friendship…that love? 

He stood by the punch bowl, drinking, watching the dancers. They wove in and out in complex patterns with skill and grace. They smiled and laughed with each other, and waves of affection flowed among and between them.

He wished he could have found a way to make amends with Crowley after the argument over his request for holy water, but then the fear would only return. Heaven was watching him, more closely than ever. They had missed the faults he had already committed—the very act of taking a meal or a drink in Crowley’s company, the Arrangement, the times they had saved each other from discorporation—by some act of grace, these behaviors unbecoming an angel had passed unseen. A hope had formed over the centuries, the hope that they were _intended_ to be friends by an ineffable planning he could never understand. 

And then it had all come crashing down, when Crowley had shown a fear of being found out which Aziraphale had not seen in him before. Heaven and Hell might not know the truth, but they suspected, and that was enough to make Aziraphale panic, to lash out, to run fast and far from danger.

“Come on, Fell!” One of the club members called to him, startling Aziraphale from his melancholy reverie. “The gavotte is next. Your favorite!”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. He had joined this club from loneliness. They were a lively group of fellows, always pleased to see him, happy to share their food and drink. He missed the companionship of a simple meal with a good friend.

One evening, not too long since, they taught him the gavotte. He knew he was not supposed to dance. But after his world had shattered, Aziraphale had taken to making small rebellions against what he was supposed to do and to be, little infractions that seemed paltry compared to those he had committed in the name of friendship. For Heaven had broken that friendship. 

Aziraphale set down his drink, and joined his temporary friends in the dance. He moved well, turning sharply, kicking his legs high, swinging arm in arm with his fellows, in time with the rhythm, in tune with the music and with his companions. The beat of the song made him _move_ , it carried him away, and for the length of the dance he forgot for those few precious minutes who and what he was.

He danced half a dozen more gavottes that night, glowing with joy beneath the dazzling lights of the chandeliers, happy in the moment. But when the night’s festivities came to a close, Aziraphale watched the other members depart the club paired up arm in arm, waving cheery goodnights.

He left alone, and as he made his way back to the bookshop, Aziraphale missed Crowley terribly.

In the foggy London night, Aziraphale walked homeward, the way lit dimly by the gas lamps. The December air chilled him, and he wrapped his arms round himself as he picked up his pace. He rarely saw the stars under these choking, soot-filled skies, and he saw none now, yet when he reached his bookshop, Aziraphale paused to gaze upward. 

Heaven had broken him, yet he still loved God. In the deepest reaches of his soul, Aziraphale did not believe that She was anything but good, that she ever meant to harm. He would do his duty to the Almighty as best he could, in any way that he could find. 

But the archangels who ruled his life on Earth, the ones who professed to know what was possible, and what was not—those angels no longer appeared perfect in his view. There were flaws within their hearts. Like the demons far below, those angels seemed to lack in imagination. They could not envision the many and varied ways that love could form. And what they did not understand, they condemned.

How long would he remain on Earth? How long would he stay in this shadowed world, alone, feeling as if half his soul had been torn away…. Aziraphale looked upward, though Heaven was everywhere and nowhere here.

He put his hands together in the traditional form for prayer. _Never ask why in Heaven, Aziraphale_. He closed his eyes. “Lord, tell me what I am meant to be. I no longer know who I am. I don’t know what I am. _Please_. Dear God Almighty, I beseech thee—tell me why I can never choose a love of my own.”

On the cold, empty street before his bookshop, Aziraphale stood, and waited, until the silence and the chill within sent him inside to seek what small comfort he could find among his books.

*

**All in the Eyes - London**

They soon made a return trip to London to shop for gifts, and they spent much of the day apart, to keep their purchases secret.

They met up again in the evening, and they dined at the Ritz amid glorious holiday décor, with classical Christmas music played by a string quartet. 

“Beautiful city at Christmas,” Aziraphale said. “Needs a bit of snow, though. Don’t you agree? Bit of snow would be ever so nice.”

“From the inside, maybe.” Crowley raised his flute of champagne. “This whole holiday celebration idea of yours has been fun, Aziraphale. To Christmas.”

Aziraphale beamed as they clinked glasses. “And to good company at Christmas.” As he drank, and as he gazed at his best friend, he wished that he could see Crowley’s eyes. “I do wish you didn’t need to wear those sunglasses in public, my dear.”

“I don’t.” Crowley snapped his fingers. Then he took off the sunglasses.

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley’s eyes had turned golden-brown with a normal round pupil. 

“Or how about this?” He snapped his fingers again, and his eyes turned green.

“Stop that!” Aziraphale grabbed his hand to still Crowley’s fingers.

“You don’t like them? Just a pair of demonic contact lenses. Or rather, _non-_ demonic ones.”

Aziraphale was astonished by the change. “I prefer the yellow ones. You don’t look quite right to me with those.”

“Yeah? Really?”

“Truly and honestly. Though I suppose those contact lenses would be useful in public places. Our new village, for one. I’ve already had people inquire if you have some sort of eye disease or injury.”

“Right. Could use them when it’s overcast or dark, when humans would not normally wear sunglasses. Otherwise—” He snapped his fingers once more, and his eyes returned to serpentine yellow with their customary black slit. He donned the sunglasses.

“That’s better. Thank you. Gave me a start, you wily fiend.” 

“Well, I’ll just do it to keep the villagers quiet.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s something.”

“Nice villagers, on the whole.” Crowley grinned. “Did you enjoy the way Mrs. Whittaker took on old Hodgkins over the rabbits?”

Aziraphale smiled. “That was quite the dressing-down, I must say.” The question of wild rabbits getting into the village garden plots had come to their attention when they were strolling through one day. They overheard Hodgkins, the busybody rule-enforcer which every village seemed to have at least one of, complaining about the way Mrs. Whittaker put peanuts out for squirrels in the wintertime, and how the peanuts tended to attract rabbits as well, right into his neighboring lettuce patch.

They had stopped to listen as Mrs. Whittaker, the village’s post-mistress, a figure beloved by all, had thoroughly browbeaten Hodgkins with quotes from the Bible, St. Francis, and _All Creatures Great and Small_ about the Christian way to treat animals, and how dare he interfere with her pursuit of God’s work, and what a cruel misery he was for wanting innocent creatures to perish and what was the great twit doing trying to grow lettuce in winter without a cold frame anyway?

“She has a temper, all right,” Aziraphale observed. “And the proper attitude to rabbits.”

“Yup.” 

Their food arrived, and they lingered over the meal, and even longer over dessert. The champagne flowed, and by the time they got back to the bookshop, it was quite late.

Crowley let out a yawn. “Long day. Shall we retire upstairs?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Shall I do some reading?”

“Please.”

They went up to the bedroom. Aziraphale read for a while out loud, with Crowley lying alongside him, turned towards him, listening. It was a habit they’d gotten into at the cottage. Aziraphale enjoyed sharing his favorite books, and Crowley enjoyed the sound of his voice.

He had brought along their current reading on this trip— _Cold Comfort Farm_. Though it was a tad modern for Aziraphale’s taste, from the 1930s for heaven’s sake, he was willing to overlook that for the way Crowley laughed at the story and its fabulous characters. 

He read for an hour, as it was late and they were both tired out. Then he set the book aside, turned off the bedside lamp, and snuggled down beneath the covers.

“Something nasty in the woodshed,” Crowley murmured as he draped an arm around Aziraphale. “Maybe it was a wily serpent.”

“Hm. Could be. More likely a figment of the imagination.” He paused. “Or someone like Hodgkins.”

Crowley chuckled. “Good story. _Fun_ story. That’s what I want from now on, Angel. Only read me the good stuff, where things end well, and where anyone in love comes to a happy ending, all right?”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s cheek. “I will. I promise.” They had seen enough of the world’s unhappiness.

“Never thought I’d ever be this content,” Crowley whispered. He kissed Aziraphale’s temple. “Never thought I’d ever be this free.”

“I never thought I’d be sharing a cottage with my former hereditary enemy.” Aziraphale curled his body, and nestled closer into their embrace, his head on Crowley’s chest. “Do you think—that is, do you wonder if anyone Up There—or Down There— _knows_ what we’ve been up to of late? Do you think anyone has been keeping watch?”

“You mean someone like that wanker Gabriel, or Michael, or Lord Beelzebub? We already know that _She’s_ watching. She led us to our cottage.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant. I’d rather like to see the look on Gabriel’s face sometime, if he knew.” Or on Valaron’s face. Aziraphale had not thought about his former mentor for a long time. “Then again, I suppose that would be a form of gloating, which I’m quite certain is conduct unbecoming an angel.”

“I’ll gloat on your behalf.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“And I wholeheartedly approve of your unbecoming conduct in all its varied forms.”

“You would.” 

“I’m falling asleep, Angel.” Crowley yawned. “Love you.”

Aziraphale knew no greater happiness than this, to lie beside his friend, encircled by affection. “I love you, too.”

“Goodnight, Aziraphale.”

“Goodnight, Crowley. May your dreams all have happy endings.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and he listened to his friend’s slow, steady breathing until a welcome slumber stole him away from the world.

*

**1941 AD - London**

Crowley drove slowly through the barren streets as the sirens blared in the distance, as the flashes of terror lit the skies.

Aziraphale clutched the satchel containing his precious books of prophecy, the books that Crowley had saved from the bomb. He still felt stunned by that act, and overwhelmed by the feeling of love he had felt towards the friend he had thought long lost.

Had enough time passed now—had they been apart long enough, had the suspicions of Heaven and Hell eased? 

Crowley pulled up in front the bookshop. It was quieter now, the sirens had ended, the bombs had stopped falling. 

Aziraphale sat still, not wanting to go inside yet. He stared down at the satchel, and nervously fingered the leather round the hasps. What did one say, after eighty years apart? How could they find their way again, as friends?

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. Perhaps that was all Crowley needed to hear.

Crowley stared straight ahead, eyes hidden by those damnable glasses. “So am I, Angel.”

“Don’t stay away.” Aziraphale bit his lower lip. “Please? I don’t think…it must surely be safer, after all this time. I don’t think they’ll notice if…if we met in the park at times, at least.” He wanted much more than that. But _more_ was something he could not have.

Crowley turned his head to look at him. He slowly pulled off the sunglasses. The streets were still shuttered in darkness from the blackout, and Aziraphale could barely see his eyes, though he saw enough. He could see the softness there, and he could see the yearning deep within. 

Before his friend could speak, Aziraphale reached to take his hand. _“Don’t.”_

“Why not?” Crowley looked at their joined hands. “For God’s sake, _why not?”_

Aziraphale struggled against his true feelings. _Angels must restrain their emotions. Angels do not ask why._ “We are an angel, and a demon. Heaven has made it clear that we should not associate, that we have nothing in common, that if we even said that we _liked_ each other, let alone anything more, the consequences would be severe.”

Crowley pressed his hand. “Damn the consequences.”

“ _Don’t_ say that.” Aziraphale fought against everything he wanted. He had to keep his friend _safe_ above all else. Heaven might slap his wrist, chastise him, send a reprimand—but _Hell_ would destroy Crowley for loving an angel. “We cannot be anything except what we are.”

“And what are we?” Crowley said bitterly. “Two enemy agents who occasionally _fraternize?”_ He pulled his hand away.

Well, he deserved that. He ought to just leave, go to his bookshop, and _stay away_ as he had been doing…but Aziraphale did not move. 

After a painful silence, Crowley said, “I’m so sorry, Angel. I didn’t mean that—don’t listen to me when I say things like that. It’s just—” 

Aziraphale heard a sniffle. “It’s all right. Don’t listen to me when I’m angry or afraid, either. I don’t mean what I say then.” 

Crowley took hold of his hand once more. “I don’t want to be what I am. I didn’t even _mean_ to be what I am, and I’ve never understood—” He stopped. He half-laughed, half-cried. “Dammit, I’ll never learn, will I? Can’t ask unanswerable questions, and I can’t help but do it anyway.”

_I love you for that…for being brave enough to try_. Aziraphale choked, and swallowed tears. Aloud, he said, “We can meet in the park, from time to time. If we hear no more suspicions, perhaps we can do a little more. Share a meal, or a drink now and then, who knows…we’ll find a way.”

_“Mio amico,”_ Crowley whispered. He took away his hand and waved at the bookshop. “Go on, we’ve been together too long tonight as it is. Go home, Angel.”

Aziraphale got out of the car, and walked slowly into his bookshop. He turned to watch Crowley drive off down the darkened street. Then he went inside, and set the satchel of books on his desk. He climbed the stairs to the upper floor, where he lay down on his bed.

And then he cried.


	6. Beneath the Light of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On New Year's Eve, Crowley and Aziraphale receive an unexpected visitation.

**An Exchange of Love – The South Downs**

On Christmas morning, snow fell on the South Downs.

A blanket of white covered the hillside and the fields, while frost made the hedgerows sparkle.

Aziraphale stood at the kitchen window in his tartan dressing gown, and gazed at their garden, long put to bed for the winter. He saw a scatter of rabbit tracks, heading across their property towards the village. Off to visit Mrs. Whittaker to pinch a few peanuts, no doubt.

The pan of milk he’d set on the stove top started to simmer. He stirred cocoa and sugar into two mugs, then added the milk. As he carried them into the sitting room, Crowley sauntered lazily in from the bedroom, also still in his pyjamas with a dressing gown of black satin.

“Morning, Angel.” He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead before taking one of the mugs.

They sat down on the plush rug in front of the tree. They had agreed to a limit of three gifts each, which stood there gaily wrapped and beribboned.

Crowley picked one out and handed it over. “Happy Christmas.”

Aziraphale set his cocoa aside, and tore into the gold wrapping paper. “Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Ah. You spied me eyeing it in that department store window, didn’t you?”

“Yup. Next year, I’ll toss in a chef’s hat. You’ll deserve it by then.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale set the book on the coffee table. He selected one of his gifts for Crowley. “Here you are. I do hope you like it.”

Crowley quickly ripped it open. “Oh!” He held up the wool scarf, knitted in black with various shades of red streaked throughout. “Did you _make_ this?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Mrs. Whittaker taught me how, in exchange for my teaching her how to make crepes.”

Crowley wrapped the scarf around his neck, and stroked it. “Warm. Toasty, even. I love it.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Is this what you kept stuffing quickly into your desk drawer whenever I popped in?”

“Yes, it was. I hope it didn’t worry you.”

“Nah. Thought you were reading a bodice-ripper on the side.”

“A _what?_ Oh, good heavens. Be sensible.”

“Never.” Crowley picked out another gift. “Here. You’ll like this one.”

Aziraphale opened the slim, oblong box to reveal a pair of season tickets to the National Theatre. “Box seats—how extravagant.” He leaned over to kiss Crowley’s cheek. “And a gift I can share with one other person.” He put a finger on his chin and looked thoughtful. “Hm. Who do I know—"

“If you take Mrs. Whittaker, I will disown you.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Here, open this one.” He handed Crowley an equally slim, oblong box.

Inside, Crowley found two front-row tickets to an upcoming concert by his favorite current rock band. “Aw. Sweet.” He raised his eyebrows. “But _two?”_

“I shall wear earplugs.”

They took a small break to drink their cocoa. Only two presents remained, and Aziraphale wanted to stretch out the surprises. So they sipped their drinks, and watched the snowflakes fluttering past the windows. “Want to go outside later? We could walk as far as the stream, perhaps. I haven’t seen snow this lovely for a long time.”

“Miracle me up a wool coat and hat to go with this scarf, and I’m in.”

They finished their cocoa, and returned to the gift exchange. They handed over their final gifts, and Crowley opened his first. “Oh, my.” He eyes widened as he held up the large, stunning photograph of the Grand Nebula, perfectly set within an exquisite black frame. 

“For your room,” Aziraphale said. He knew Crowley had crafted those brilliant pillars and clouds of stars being born. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” Crowley gazed at the nebula. “So much detail…it’s astonishing.” He leaned over to kiss Aziraphale lightly on the lips. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale held his last gift. Somehow, Crowley had found tartan wrapping paper for it. “I almost hate to tear this open.”

“Go on. I got something to decorate _your_ room.”

That piqued his interest enough to rip the lovely paper off a small box, which he opened to pull out a ceramic sculpture. “Oh, Crowley….” He gasped in amazement.

The sculpture, which stood about eight inches high, was hand-painted, and it depicted two figures standing on a stone parapet. One was an angel with blond hair, who held a wing over the red-haired demon standing close beside him. “How did you—how on Earth—”

“Ran across a studio during that London shopping trip. The artist did commissions. Had to use a small miracle to get her to accept a rush order.”

“This is _not_ going in my room!” 

“No?” Crowley raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“This is for _both_ of us, my dear. It belongs here, in this room.” Aziraphale pushed himself off the rug and carefully placed the statue on the center of the mantelpiece. “There. We can both see it every day.”

“Give me a hand, Angel. One of my legs fell asleep.”

Aziraphale helped Crowley stagger to his feet. He stomped his leg on the floor a few times and shook it. “That’s better.”

“You’re feeling stable now?”

“Yeah. Why—”

Aziraphale flung himself at Crowley, choking him in a tight embrace. 

“Oof. Let me breathe.”

“Sorry.” Aziraphale relaxed his hold a bit. “It’s just such a wonderful gift. It’s absolutely perfect.” He kissed Crowley. _“Thank you_.”

“I manage to get some things right once in a while.”

Aziraphale loved him more in that moment than he ever had before. He was overcome with love for his friend, his companion, the other half of his soul. He hardly knew if he were breathing, if the world still moved. 

“Hey,” Crowley said softly as he brushed light fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, “you all right there?”

Aziraphale nodded. He kissed Crowley again. “My dear—my _dear_ friend for the rest of time, I am much more than all right.”

“Don’t get soppy on me, Angel.”

Aziraphale was overwhelmed with love. “I can’t help it, I’m afraid. And it’s your fault anyway, for getting me such a sentimental gift.”

“Yeah, it will be hard to top that next year.” 

“Indeed. Impossible, I would say.”

“Right.” Crowley looked at the tree, and the mess of torn wrapping paper and ribbons on the floor around it. “Maybe we should just buy each other gift cards next Christmas and call it good.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, no. I have to come up with something grand next time.”

“The nebula is grand,” Crowley replied. “Literally.” He smiled. “And non-literally, too. I’m happy. Come on, let’s take our stroll in the winter wonderland.”

They got dressed, and went outside. They were both so bundled up they could barely see each other during the walk along the hedgerow, and then down the path through the field to the stream.

Snow still fell softly around them, and they watched it drift lazily to the stream, where the snowflakes vanished in the gurgling water. They stood there for a while, taking in the beauty of winter. Frost glistened on the bare tree branches, and when the sun broke through the clouds, the snow covering the field glittered like a white carpet of diamonds. 

“Every day,” Aziraphale said, “I feel grateful that we actually live here, in such a peaceful place.” He had spent six thousand years on Earth under the burden of Heaven, never knowing when he greeted the dawn if he would still be where he wished to be when the night fell. The bookshop had provided a long-term place of respite, yet even that had come under threat, and had never been a true haven.

“You never felt secure before,” Crowley replied. 

“No.” He put his arm through Crowley’s as they turned to head back. “But I do now.” They had been guided here. They were safe here. “Some days, it seems as if there is an ethereal, divine wing hovering above us, protecting us from the storms of the world, and keeping us forever hidden from Heaven and Hell’s pettiness.”

They came up to their cottage, its thatched roof white with snow. “Needs some smoke curling from the chimney,” Crowley said.

They went inside and built a fire, and then Aziraphale cooked a late breakfast. After cleaning up the mess beneath the tree, Aziraphale helped Crowley find the perfect spot for his nebula picture. 

When they settled on the sofa for a bit of pre-lunch reading and cuddling, Aziraphale said, “Our first real Christmas together has been most pleasant so far. As for the rest, I’ve been working hard to master turkey dinner. A light lunch is in order, and after that, I’d like you to help with the big dinner feast preparation.”

“You’re sure you want me getting in your way in the kitchen, Angel?”

“I plan to teach you how to chop onions and celery, how to boil and mash potatoes, and how to baste a turkey.”

“Great. What will _you_ be doing?”

“I shall prepare the stuffing, fix up a green bean casserole, and make the pumpkin pie.”

“Can I drink wine while I’m mashing and chopping things?”

“So long as you can do so without slicing off a finger, yes.”

Crowley didn’t chop off a finger. He came close, though.

The dinner took hours to make, but the results were worth the effort. Crowley even ate a little of everything, instead of simply going straight to dessert. They ate by candlelight, as Aziraphale had turned down the lights everywhere to enjoy the ones twinkling on the Christmas tree.

After dinner they settled down on the sofa once more, relaxed and sated. 

“You did that turkey proud, Aziraphale.” Crowley stretched out on the sofa, resting his head on Aziraphale’s lap. “I think I’ll just sleep for a week or so now.”

“Nonsense. You will do no such thing. I would get too lonely.”

“Lonely? See me every day. And night.”

“And I never get tired of that, my dear. Now, hush. I’m going to read for a while.” He had brought _Cold Comfort Farm_ from their bedroom, and proceeded to read aloud while Crowley rested. 

“Read that last part again,” Crowley said some time in. “I dozed off there for a bit.”

Aziraphale indulged him, and then shut the book. He ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, which had grown longer since they had moved here. “Well. It was a lovely day. And though it’s not that late, I think we ought to retire to the bedroom before you fall asleep on this sofa.”

When they lay under the bed covers, embraced beneath the warmth of a down comforter, Aziraphale said, “Did I remember to tell you how much I love you today?”

“Mm-hm. About a dozen times.”

“Ah. Good. Just checking.”

“I’m going to sleep now, Angel.”

“Too much good food, hm? You did eat more than you usually do.”

“Excellent chef.”

“I did enjoy it immensely.”

Crowley yawned, stretched, and resettled into their embrace. “I love you too, Aziraphale. A dozen times over plus one.”

“Sweet dreams,” Aziraphale replied. 

“You, too, Angel.”

And they were.

*

**A Little Over Four Months Earlier - London**

Crowley snapped his fingers before entering his flat, to ensure that nothing of the holy water or Ligur remained. “Come on in, Angel.”

Aziraphale followed him into the main room. He gazed round at the stark walls, and the spartan furnishings. “This is where you _live._ ” He sighed. “Crowley, this is not a home.”

“I’ll make it comfortable for you, just for tonight.” Crowley performed a demonic miracle, creating a cozier corner within the room. A plush sofa, a soft rug, a fireplace. “More wine?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Please.”

The effects of the bottle they had shared at the Tadfield bus stop had worn off on the ride back to London. Crowley went to the kitchen to snag a bottle of wine and two glasses.

When he returned, Aziraphale had made himself comfortable on the sofa, or as comfortable as he ever looked, sitting up straight and proper, hands in his lap. 

Crowley snapped up a small coffee table for the bottles. He poured out their wine, handed over a glass, and then sprawled onto the sofa. He drank deeply. Then he snapped his fingers again to produce a glowing fire in the hearth.

“That’s nice,” Aziraphale said. He sipped delicately, and then sighed. “I do so wish the bookshop—well, I don’t wish to dwell on that.”

“Neither do I.” Crowley stared into the flames he had conjured, remembering the worse moment of his long life. There were other things he didn’t wish to dwell on. The past few days had been a nightmare from which he wasn’t sure he had woken yet. 

And there _would_ be more to come. They had a chance, though, to get through the danger ahead. During the bus ride, they’d had plenty of time to ponder Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy, and had decided she meant for them to switch bodies to survive Heaven and Hell’s retribution.

They had not done so yet. 

“You know they could come for us at any time,” Crowley said.

“I know.” Aziraphale set his half-full glass on the table and turned towards him. “If this goes well, it means we’ll be _free_ of them, yes?”

Crowley nodded. “They won’t ever want to have anything to do with us again if we frighten them enough. Are you up to doing that?” He hesitated, but he had to know. “Are you up to risking your life for me?”

Aziraphale looked at him with a light in his eyes that did not come from the flames in the hearth. “I am.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley hated to say what he had to say. “Because only two days ago, I would not have been sure of that.” Not on that bandstand, not when hearing those words of denial. 

“I am sure.” Aziraphale swallowed, glanced down at his hands, bit his lower lip. When he looked up, he said, “There has been a shadow overhanging us for six thousand years. _How long have we been friends?”_ He sighed deeply. “Don’t listen to me when I’m afraid. Never believe what I say when I’m not my true self.”

“I tried not to.” Crowley set his glass aside. He reached to take both Aziraphale’s trembling hands in his. He had tried for so long not to listen to Heaven’s voice when Aziraphale spoke in fear. He had tried, over and over, to walk in friendship beside him without seeing Heaven’s shackles around the angel’s feet. 

He brought Aziraphale’s hands to his lips and kissed them. “I tried. But I still felt my heart breaking.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes as Crowley caressed his hands. When he opened them, they were wet with tears. “I know that. I never meant to, and I broke my own heart as well.” He kissed the back of Crowley’s hands. “Forgive me.” 

Crowley could feel the wetness trickling down his cheeks. “I always do, Angel.” He always would. 

And he knew that he had provoked his friend, that his words had hurt as well. “I’m sorry about the whole running off to the stars thing. Shouldn’t have said it.” He sighed as he took one of his hands away to wipe his cheeks clean. “Forgive me, too?”

Aziraphale let go his hold to wipe his own face of tears. “Of course I do.” He smiled softly. “I love you.”

_Oh_. Crowley had waited to hear those words forever. So simple, so plainly spoken, yet those three words enfolded his soul, those three words enraptured his heart. He had waited for a love he could know completely, and freely, and he heard more than that in Aziraphale’s voice—he heard the chains of Heaven break at last.

And when he touched Aziraphale’s hands again, when he pulled him close and leaned in to kiss his cheek, when he whispered, “I love you, too,” Crowley broke the bonds of Hell, and for the first time in forever, he knew no fear.

“Aziraphale,” he said when they pulled apart, “when I walk into Heaven wearing your form, I will be as brave as I know you are, and I will let them know what true fear feels like.”

His friend, his love, his _Angel_ , clasped his hands tightly. “And when I walk into Hell, my dear, I will be as brazen and provoking as _you_ can be.” He smiled. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Good.” Crowley looked at their joined hands. “Shall we get on with the swap, then—are you ready?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I am.” He closed his eyes. “This might be a little tricky—mind how you go.”

Crowley closed his eyes as well, the better to focus. 

“See you on the other side,” he replied.

*

**A Most Unusual New Year’s Eve – The South Downs**

While they were eating lunch that day, Aziraphale heard a soft thud on the front porch. He got up to investigate, and on opening the door, he found a newspaper sitting there, with no sign of a delivery person. “Odd.” They got the _Times_ , but it came to their post office box in the village.

He picked it up and unfolded it to see the banner of the _Celestial Observer_.

“Odder still.” He took it inside to show Crowley. “My subscription lapsed after I left Heaven’s service.”

“Bureaucracy,” Crowley replied. “Someone slipped up. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Aziraphale sat down at the dining table, and looked at the lead article on page one. 

_Archangels Assigned New Duties; Management Changes to Commence in the New Earth Year._

“I think I know why I received this divine delivery.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Aziraphale showed him the headline. “Shall I read it aloud?”

“I’m all ears.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and read, and he grew increasingly amazed as he did so. 

“In a move from on high, starting in the new year, the archangels will no longer oversee general angelic work. This change comes after the Metatron received a complaint about the conduct of certain angels, which led to a thorough and lengthy investigation into the overall behavior of the archangels regarding mentorship, workload assignments, and handling of holiday requests. A review was also conducted of an incident involving the unauthorized use of deadly force in the punishment of a principality.”

_“What?”_ Crowley turned the paper partway toward him to read it along with Aziraphale. “They actually called those bastards to account for what they did to you?”

“So it would seem.” Aziraphale sat there, stunned by this news. Such a change and rectification could come only from God. What would this mean for him—would he be allowed to return to Heaven—would his status be restored?

“The Metatron announced these changes, with a note of apology to all angels concerned who may have been unfairly treated. God regrets the lack of personal oversight of the archangels, and let it be known, through the Voice of the Almighty, that any wrongs committed during the archangels’ tenure shall be righted in due course. The new management team members will be announced soon.”

The article ended there. 

Aziraphale stared at the _Celestial Observer_. He could hardly believe it. “What does this mean?”

“Personally,” Crowley replied, “I want to see Gabriel stuck in the celestial file room for the next six thousand years or so, forced to wear a plain khaki uniform.”

“Oh, he would hate that.” Aziraphale silently read over the article again. “It says that the wrongs done shall be righted. I wonder what that means for me? Do you think—is it truly possible that God will restore my privileges?”

“Don’t see why not.” Crowley looked quite pleased by the idea. “You deserve a lot more than that.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.” Aziraphale wouldn’t mind restitution, but only if he weren’t required to _return_ to Heaven any time soon. “I wouldn’t go back there, of course. My place is with you.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think they’ll roll out the welcome mat for _me_ Up There.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale wondered if that were possible, too, now that God seemed to be taking a more personal interest in angelic affairs, and in past wrongs. Crowley had never meant to Fall—and he had done nothing to warrant such punishment. “You never know.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Angel.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale tapped the newspaper. “This did not arrive on our doorstep by bureaucratic oversight. It was sent deliberately by a higher authority, I’m certain of that. Why shouldn’t it be meant for both of us?”

Crowley shook his head. “I’m unforgiveable, remember?”

“ _Are_ you? Truly?” Aziraphale didn’t believe that. “And what if you don’t _need_ forgiveness? Why _should_ you need it, if you did nothing wrong?”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t just about hanging around with the wrong people. I asked too many questions. Never ask _why_ of Heaven—isn’t that what we were always told?”

“Yes, but that should not be enough to keep you from being restored to Heaven. Is isn’t right, and it isn’t _fair_.” Aziraphale did not voice his larger concern, for at the moment, it was far away, or so he hoped. 

Someday, he knew, the Earth would no longer provide a home for them. Someday—please dear God let it be ages in the future—the humans might destroy too much, or die out from their own selfish needs, or the world might be wiped clean in a catastrophe. 

In that dreaded future, there would be no cottage in the South Downs, nor any other refuge for them on Earth. If they wished to stay together, they would have to leave this world and seek another, and where would that be? What would it be like—would they be able to find a new world round another star, one that would provide a home they would come to love as much as this one?

And what if no such place existed? 

Aziraphale did not wish to burden Crowley with such unpleasant thoughts. He loved their life here, he adored _this_ world, with its books and its wonderful food and its cities and art and music, its lovely landscapes, its abundant wildlife. _This_ was the only world he had known, and he felt deep within that this was his only true home.

He never wished to leave it. If he could miraculously construct a bubble over this countryside, this land which he loved, and protect it—never changing—he would.

Aziraphale folded the newspaper and set it aside. “Let’s not dwell on it today, at least. This is New Year’s Eve, and I should like to enjoy ringing in the new year.”

“Fine.” Crowley rose. “How about a drive up to Crawley? We can pick up champagne, confetti, party hats, whatever you like.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale grinned at the image of Crowley wearing a party hat. “Yes.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s have some _fun_.”

*

They spent the afternoon buying up goods for a proper New Year’s celebration, and returned to the cottage to decorate. Aziraphale hung a gaily colored banner above the fireplace which cheerfully proclaimed a Happy New Year. They hung streamers about the sitting room and dining room, and strings of white and gold lights. 

They unpacked their purchases of champagne, ready-made platters of _hor d’oeuvres_ , and a box of liqueur-filled chocolates. Aziraphale cooked a fine dinner of grilled salmon with a ginger glaze, with lemon risotto and a simple salad. 

Crowley praised the meal, though he ignored the salad.

After dinner they went to the sitting room for several hours of relaxation on the sofa, listening to Aziraphale’s favorite classical music pieces on his ancient gramophone. A good deal of champagne was drunk, and all the chocolates were consumed. Aziraphale made Crowley don a party hat, and had a laugh, and then allowed him to toss it into the fireplace.

When the time drew nearer to midnight, Crowley rose and offered a hand to Aziraphale. “Dance with me, Angel.” 

Aziraphale gazed up at him in wonder. “Dance?” They had never done so. And he had never danced after the gavotte went out of style. Until this moment, Aziraphale had not realized how much he missed it. “Yes. _Yes.”_

He allowed Crowley to pull him up. They shifted the sofa and coffee table over to make more room, and rolled up the area rug. Crowley snapped his fingers, and the music changed to a rather slow waltz. “Can you dance to this?”

“I learned to waltz a long time ago, but I shall give it a try.”

There was not a lot of room, so they moved in a close hold. Crowley led, an arm round Aziraphale’s waist, while Aziraphale lay his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. He loved being guided round by Crowley’s firm touch. The music swelled, and Aziraphale let Crowley swirl him round, smoothly, expertly moving in time with the beat. 

When the music died down again, and slowed even more, Crowley left off the waltz’s movements, and pulled Aziraphale to him as close as possible. They shuffled around the floor, cheek to cheek, and he felt embraced by affection, friendship, and love. Crowley’s hand caressed the small of his back, while he held on to Aziraphale’s other hand in a gentle hold. They swayed together to the music, barely dancing now, simply moving in tune with each other.

Aziraphale kissed his cheek, then said, “We should have always been allowed to dance. Perhaps now, She will let her angels dance….”

Warmth suddenly flooded the room as a golden light enveloped them, as a resonant voice full of many harmonies conjoined spoke around, above, and through them. 

_“I shall,”_ it said.

They both stood still, awestruck. Aziraphale gazed in astonishment at the light which wrapped round them in gold and white. They stepped out of their tight hold, but stayed side by side, holding hands, as the Voice continued.

_“I shall let my angels dance, Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate. And play more, and work less, and more than that, I shall let them love whosoever they choose to love.”_

Aziraphale was suffused with wonder. “Even I, my Lord?” He pressed Crowley’s hand.

_“Especially you, my long suffering one. The wrongs shall be righted. The deserving shall be given their due reward.”_

“And what of my friend—my love—beside me?” Aziraphale felt surprised by his own boldness. But there could be no more important battle to fight in his eternal life than this. “He is the other half of my soul, and I will not be blessed until the day he is forgiven.”

“Angel, you don’t have to—”

“Hush. I _do_.”

_“My forgiveness is for those who have sinned against me, and as Crowley has not done so, no forgiveness is needed.”_

Crowley gasped, and staggered against Aziraphale. 

He held up his friend with a great strength. “It’s all right. It’s finally all right.”

Crowley slowly straightened, and nodded. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, held him tightly, then pulled away, his eyes moist. He gazed round at the golden light. “What am I now, then? What am I to _be?”_

_“What you both are, my dear ones, are simply spiritual beings inhabiting human forms who shall love one another freely, and who shall dwell on Earth as long as they wish, and who may both be restored to Heaven at a time of their own choosing.”_

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. He smiled. “Sounds good to me.” Then his brow creased. “Well, not too sure about that last bit. Celestial music can’t hold a candle to a good _Queen_ song.”

“I agree, my dear. Nor does Heaven have bookshops, and the food is terrible.” Then Aziraphale had an idea. 

“Lord,” he said, “would it be possible, when that faraway day comes, for us to forego the Heaven where angels dwell, in favor of staying on the circles for human souls?” When the real Earth was gone, the ethereal Earth would live on there.

_“You wish to spend eternity on the lower levels?”_

Aziraphale raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Crowley, who nodded his assent.

“Yes. Where everything we love from Earth has been recreated by the Grand Workshop. Where we could live in a reproduction of our cottage and garden. With my books.” He felt gloriously free and bold to ask for precisely what he wanted. “A few of our favorite restaurants would not come amiss.” He smiled. “And do please let Crowley have his car.”

Crowley laughed. “Toss in some roads for me to drive it on while you’re at it.”

There was a lengthy silence. Aziraphale began to feel a little less bold and slightly more nervous. “Oh my. Do you think we overdid things?”

Suddenly, the ethereal light shimmered in waves around them, and then returned to a steady glow.

_“Why did I make my angels so clever?”_

The nervousness fled, for Aziraphale could not hold back. “One never asks why in Heaven, my Lord.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Angel!”

The light shivered and shook with an echoing, booming sound, as if the Almighty were having a good laugh.

Then the shimmering, shivery sound diminished. 

_“Be blessed, my angels. Two halves of one soul, be forever blessed, and safe from all harm. Come to us then, in the far far future when the Earth no longer has a hold upon your affections. Come to us then, and all that you have asked for shall be given.”_

Aziraphale relaxed. “Thank you.”

_“Though you neglected to mention the duck pond, I might observe.”_

Aziraphale rushed to correct that oversight, and Crowley spoke at the same instant. “We’d like a duck pond, too!” They looked at each other and laughed. “If you please?”

_“Of course. After all, birds—and all creatures to whom I granted the freedom to fly—are some of my favorite things.”_

With that, the golden white light shimmered a final time, and vanished from the room.

As Aziraphale stood there, trying to take in what had just happened, the clock struck midnight.

Crowley smiled. “Happy New Year.” He pulled Aziraphale to him, and they kissed.

Aziraphale lost himself in that touch. They were not two beings—they were one. He lost himself in Crowley’s soul, and found himself there as well, as if there were no barriers between them, as if nothing could ever separate them. He touched the heart and soul of the one he loved, he merged his heart and soul with the one he loved, he lost all sense of who and what he was in a fusion of communion.

And suddenly he knew—he could finally understand—that for all these long years, for the six thousand years he had been on Earth, whatever Heaven had striven to take from him, to keep out of his grasp--the music, the dance, his books, his craving for the human joys all round, the friendship and the love—whatever they had tried to crush, to deny, to forbid, these things had been given back to him by the friend holding to him, whenever and wherever he could. 

He had often been lonely, but he had never been _alone_.

And that knowledge resided deep within, and had never abandoned him no matter what their travails. Not just love, not only love, but knowing he had a friend on Earth who would always strive against Heaven’s constraints for his sake— _this_ was what had made him, and kept him, content, this was what had made him, and kept him, _whole_.

Aziraphale pulled away from the touch, and looked into those golden eyes. “I’m in heaven,” he whispered.

Crowley held him, and to the soft, slow rhythms of Earthly music, he swayed once more into their dance. 

“So am I, Angel,” he replied. _“So am I.”_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The scenes in Heaven came from wondering why angels needed celestial wages. We know that demons pop up to Earth to perform temptations (per Hastur and Ligur’s recounting of deeds) but none seem to stay there permanently. I assumed at least some angels were doing the same thing with good deeds. So what were ten million angels and demons doing the rest of the time to merit wages? I invented the idea that they were kept busy constructing occult or ethereal recreations of Earth for human souls to dwell in, with all the good stuff built for the circles of Heaven, and all the bad stuff for the circles of Hell. In my version of Heaven, all angelic work is overseen by the Archangels.


End file.
